A  CHRISTMAS  ACCIDEH 

••=.=  A  N  D  O  T  H  E  R  STO  R  I E  S  * 


BY 
ANNIE     ELIOT   TRUMBULL 


•4*60.81"     JVVAY,  L08  AW<t«(J « 


A  Christmas  Accident 


STORIES   BY 

ANNIE  ELIOT  TRUMBULL 

* 

A  CHRISTMAS  ACCIDENT  AND  OTHER 
STORIES.  i6mo.  Cloth ....  $1.00 

ROD'S  SALVATION  AND  OTHER  STO- 
RIES. i6mo.  Cloth i.oo 

A  CAPE  COD  WEEK.     i6mo.    Cloth    i.oo 

MISTRESS  CONTENT  CRADOCK. 
Cloth.  161110 i.oo 

9 

A.  S.  BARNES  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS, 
New  York. 


A  Christmas  Accident 

And  Other  Stories 

By 
Annie  Eliot  Trumbull 

Author  of  "  White  Birches,"  "  A  Masque 
of  Culture,"  etc. 


New  York 

A.  S.  Barnes  and  Company 
1900 


Copyright,  1897, 
BY  A.  S.  BARNES  AND  COMPANY. 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


OF  the  stories  included  in  this  volume,  the 
first  originally  appeared  in  the  Hartford  Cour- 
ant ;  "After  —  the  Deluge,"  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  ;  "Mary  A.  Twining,"  in  the  Home 
Maker  ;  "A  Postlude  "  and  "  Her  Neighbor's 
Landmark,"  in  the  Outlook;  "The  'Daily 
Morning  Chronicle,'  "  in  The  New  England 
Magazine;  and  "Hearts  Unfortified,"  in 
McClure*  s  Magazine.  To  the  courtesy  of  the 
editors  of  these  periodicals  I  am  indebted  for 

permission  to  reprint  them. 

A.  E.  T. 


Contents 

Page 

A  CHRISTMAS  ACCIDENT i 

AFTER — THE  DELUGE 32 

MEMOIR  OF  MARY  TWINING     ....  67 

A  POSTLUDE 99 

THE  "DAILY  MORNING  CHRONICLE"    .  139 

HEARTS  UNFORTIFIED 17? 

HER  NEIGHBOR'S  LANDMARK     ....  210 


A 

Christmas  Accident 


AT  first  the  two  yards  were  as  much 
alike  as  the  two  houses,  each  house 
being  the  exact  copy  of  the  other.  They 
were  just  two  of  those  little  red  brick 
dwellings  that  one  is  always  seeing  side 
by  side  in  the  outskirts  of  a  city,  and 
looking  as  if  the  occupants  must  be  alike 
too.  But  these  two  families  were  quite 
different.  Mr.  Gilton,  who  lived  in  one, 
was  a  pretty  cross  sort  of  man,  and  was 
quite  well-to-do,  as  cross  people  some- 
times are.  He  and  his  wife  lived  alone, 
and  they  did  not  have  much  going  out 
and  coming  in,  either.  Mrs.  Gilton 
would  have  liked  more  of  it,  but  she  had 
given  up  thinking  about  it,  for  her  hus- 
band had  said  so  many  times  that  it  was 
i 


A  Christmas  Accident 

women's  tomfoolery  to  want  to  have 
people,  whom  you  weren't  anything  to 
and  who  were  n't  anything  to  you,  ringing 
your  doorbell  all  the  time  and  bother- 
ing around  in  your  dining-room,  —  which 
of  course  it  was;  and  she  would  have 
believed  it  if  a  woman  ever  did  believe 
anything  a  man  says  a  great  many  times. 

In  the  other  house  there  were  five  chil- 
dren, and,  as  Mr.  Gilton  said,  they  made 
too  large  a  family,  and  they  ought  to  have 
gone  somewhere  else.  Possibly  they 
would  have  gone  had  it  not  been  for 
the  fence;  but  when  Mr.  Gilton  put  it  up 
and  Mr.  Bilton  told  him  it  was  three 
inches  too  far  on  his  land,  and  Mr.  Gilton 
said  he  could  go  to  law  about  it,  express- 
ing the  idea  forcibly,  Mr.  Bilton  was 
foolish  enough  to  take  his  advice.  The 
decision  went  against  him,  and  a  good  deal 
of  his  money  went  with  it,  for  it  was  a 
long,  teasing  lawsuit,  and  instead  of  being 
three  inches  of  made  ground  it  might  have 
been  three  degrees  of  the  Arctic  Circle  for 


A  Christmas  Accident 

the  trouble  there  was  in  getting  at  it.     So 
Mr.  Bilton  had  to  stay  where  he  was. 

It  was  then  that  the  yards  began  to  take 
on  those  little  differences  that  soon  grew 
to  be  very  marked.  Neither  family  would 
plant  any  vines  because  they  would  have 
been  certain  to  heedlessly  beautify  the 
other  side,  and  consequently  the  fence,  in 
all  its  primitive  boldness,  stood  out  un- 
compromisingly, and  the  one  or  two  little 
bits  of  trees  grew  carefully  on  the  farther 
side  of  the  enclosure  so  as  not  to  be  mixed 
up  in  the  trouble  at  all.  But  Mr.  Gilton's 
grass  was  cut  smoothly  by  the  man  who 
made  the  fires,  while  Mr.  Bilton  only 
found  a  chance  to  cut  his  himself  once  in 
two  weeks.  Then,  by  and  by,  Mr.  Gil- 
ton  bought  a  red  garden  bench  and  put  it 
under  the  tree  that  was  nearest  to  the 
fence.  No  one  ever  went  out  and  sat  on 
it,  to  be  sure,  but  to  the  Bilton  children  it 
represented  the  visible  flush  of  prosperity. 
Particularly  was  Cora  Cordelia  wont  to 
peer  through  the  fence  and  gaze  upon  that 
3 


A  Christmas  Accident 

red  bench,  thinking  it  a  charming  place  in 
which  to  play  house,  ignorant  of  the  fact 
that  much  of  the  red  paint  would  have 
come  off  on  her  back.  Cora  Cordelia  was 
the  youngest  of  the  five.  All  the  rest  had 
very  simple  names,  —  John,  Walter,  Fanny, 
and  Susan,  —  but  when  it  came  to  Cora 
Cordelia,  luxuries  were  beginning  to  get 
very  scarce  in  the  Bilton  family,  and  Mrs. 
Bilton  felt  that  she  must  make  up  for  it 
by  being  lavish,  in  one  direction  or  an- 
other. She  had  wished  to  name  Fanny, 
Cora,  and  Susan,  Cordelia,  but  she  had 
yielded  to  her  husband,  and  called  one 
after  his  mother  and  one  after  herself,  and 
then  gave  both  her  favorite  names  to  the 
youngest  of  all.  Cora  Cordelia  was  a 
pretty  little  girl,  prettier  even  than  both 
her  names  put  together. 

After  the  red  bench  came  a  quicksilver 
ball,  that  was  put  in  the  middle  of  the 
yard  and  reflected  all  the  glory  of  its 
owner,  albeit  in  a  somewhat  distorted 
form.  This  effort  of  human  ingenuity 
4 


A  Christmas  Accident 

filled  the  Bilton  children  with  admiration 
bordering  on  awe ;  Cora  Cordelia  spent 
hours  gazing  at  it,  until  called  in  and 
reproved  by  her  mother  for  admiring  so 
much  things  she  could  not  afford  to  have. 
After  this,  she  only  admired  it  covertly. 

Small  distinctions  like  these  barbed  the 
arrows  of  contrast  and  comparison  and 
kept  the  disadvantages  of  neighborhood 
ever  present. 

Then,  it  was  a  constant  annoyance  to 
have  their  surnames  so  much  alike.  Mat- 
ters were  made  more  unpleasant  by  mis- 
takes of  the  butcher,  the  grocer,  and  so 
on,  —  Gilton,  79  Holmes  Avenue,  was  so 
much  like  Bilton,  77  Holmes  Avenue. 
Gilton  changed  his  butcher  every  time 
he  sent  his  dinner  to  Bilton ;  and  though 
the  mistakes  were  generally  rectified,  neither 
of  the  two  families  ever  forgot  the  time 
the  Biltons  ate,  positively  ate,  the  Gilton 
dinner,  under  a  misapprehension.  Mrs. 
Bilton  apologized,  and  Mrs.  Gilton  boldly 
told  her  husband  that  she  was  glad  they  'd 
5 


A  Christmas  Accident 

had  it,  and  she  hoped  they  'd  enjoyed  it, 
which  only  made  matters  worse  ;  and  alto- 
gether it  was  a  dark  day,  the  only  joy  of 
it  being  that  fearful  one  snatched  by  John, 
Walter,  Susan,  Fanny,  and  Cora  Cordelia 
from  the  undoubted  excellence  of  the  roast. 
Of  course  there  was  an  assortment  of 
minor  difficulties.  The  smoke  from  the 
B ikons'  kitchen  blew  in  through  the  win- 
dows of  the  Giltons'  sitting-room  when  the 
wind  was  in  one  direction,  and,  when  it  was 
in  the  other,  many  of  the  clothes  from  the 
Giltons'  clothesline  were  blown  into  the 
Biltons'  yard,  and  Fanny,  Susan,  or  Cora 
Cordelia  had  to  be  sent  out  to  pick  them 
up  and  drop  them  over  the  fence  again, 
which  Mrs.  Bilton  said  was  very  wearing, 
as  of  course  it  must  have  been.  Things 
like  this  were  always  happening,  but 
matters  reached  a  climax  when  it  came 
to  the  dog.  It  was  n't  a  large  dog,  but 
it  was  a  tiresome  one.  It  got  up  early 
in  the  morning  and  barked.  Now  we  all 
know  that  early  rising  is  a  .good  thing  and 
6 


A  Christmas  Accident 

honorable  among  all  men,  but  it  is  some- 
thing that  ought  to  be  done  quietly,  out  of 
regard  to  the  weaker  vessels ;  and  a  dog 
that  barks  between  five  and  seven  in  the 
morning,  continuously,  certainly  ought  to 
be  suppressed,  even  if  it  be  necessary  to 
use  force.  Everybody  agreed  with  the 
Biltons  about  that,  —  everybody  except 
the  Giltons  themselves,  who,  by  some  one 
of  nature's  freaks,  did  n't  mind  it.  Mrs. 
Bilton  often  said  she  wished  Mrs.  Gilton 
could  be  a  light  sleeper  for  a  week  and 
see  what  it  was  like.  So,  too,  everybody 
thought  that  Mr.  Bilton  had  right  on  his 
side  when  he  complained  that  this  same 
dog  came  into  his  yard,  being  apparently 
indifferent  to  any  coolness  between  the 
estate  owners,  and  ran  over  a  bed  of 
geraniums  and  one  thing  and  another,  that 
was  the  small  Bilton  offset  to  the  Gilton 
bench  and  ball.  But  when  one  morning, 
for  the  first  time,  that  dog  remained  quiet 
and  restful,  and  was  found  cold  and  poi- 
soned, and  Mr.  Gilton  was  loud  in  his 
7 


A  Christmas  Accident 

accusations  of  the  Bilton  boys  and  their 
father,  public  opinion  wavered  for  a* 
moment.  After  that  accident,  no  mem- 
ber of  either  family  spoke  to  any  member 
of  the  other.  That  was  the  way  matters 
stood  the  day  before  Christmas. 

It  was  snowing  hard,  and  the  afternoon 
grew  dark  rapidly,  and  the  whirling  flakes 
pursued  a  blinding  career.  In  spite  of 
that,  everybody  was  out  doing  the  last 
thing.  Mrs.  Gilton  was  not,  to  be  sure. 
Of  course  they  would  have  a  big  dinner, 
but  even  that  was  all  arranged  for,  al- 
though the  turkey  had  n't  come  and  her 
husband  was  going  to  stop  and  see  about 
it  on  his  way  home.  She  shuddered  as 
the  possibility  of  its  having  gone  to  the 
Biltons  occurred  to  her.  But  she  did  n't 
believe  it  had,  —  they  had  n't  the  same 
butcher  any  longer.  Meanwhile  there 
was  so  little  to  do.  It  was  too  dark  to 
read  or  sew,  and  she  sat  idly  at  the  win- 
dow looking  out  at  the  passers  and  the 
8 


A  Christmas  Accident 

driving  snow.  Everybody  else  was  in  a 
hurry.  She  wished  she,  too,  had  occasion 
to  hasten  down  for  a  last  purchase,  or  to 
light  the  lamp  in  order  to  finish  a  last  bit 
of  dainty  sewing,  as  she  used  to  do  when 
she  was  a  girl.  She  seemed  to  have  so 
few  friends  now  with  whom  she  exchanged 
Christmas  greetings.  Was  it  then  only 
for  children  and  youth,  this  Christmas 
cheer  ?  And  must  she  necessarily  have 
left  it  behind  her  with  her  girlhood  ?  No, 
she  knew  better  than  that.  She  felt  that 
there  was  a  deeper  significance  in  the 
Christmas-tide  than  can  come  home  to 
the  hearts  of  children  and  unthoughtful- 
ness,  and  yet  it  had  grown  to  be  so  painfully 
like  other  days,  —  an  occasion  for  a  little 
bigger  dinner,  that  was  about  all.  With 
an  unconscious  sigh  she  looked  across  to 
the  Bilton  house.  Plenty  of  people  over 
there  to  make  merry.  Five  stockings  to 
hang  up.  She  wished  she  might  have  sent 
something  in.  To  be  sure,  there  was  the 
dog,  but  that  was  some  time  ago.  Very 
9 


A  Christmas  Accident 

likely  the  dog  would  have  been  dead  now, 
anyhow.  She  felt,  herself,  that  this  logic 
was  not  irrefutable,  but  she  wished  she 
could  have  sent  some  paper  parcels  just 
the  same.  So  strong  had  this  imp'ulse 
been  that  she  had  said  to  her  husband 
somewhat  timidly  that  morning,  — 

"  There  are  a  good  many  of  those 
Bilton  children  to  get  presents  for." 

"  More  fools  they  that  get  'em  pres- 
ents, then,"  he  had  pleasantly  replied. 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  has  much  to  buy 
them  with,"  she  continued. 

"  He  had  enough  to  buy  poison  for  my 
dog,"  exclaimed  her  husband,  giving  his 
newspaper  an  angry  shake. 

"  I  'd  almost  like  to  send  them  in  some 
cheap  little  toys." 

"  Well,  as  long  as  you  don't  quite  like 
to,  it  won't  do  any  harm,"  he  said  with 
some  violence,  laying  down  his  newspaper, 
and  looking  at  her  in  a  manner  not  to  be 
misunderstood.  u  But  you  see  that  the 
liking  does  n't  get  any  farther." 
10 


A  Christmas  Accident 

"  It 's  Christmas,  you  know,"  said  his 
plucky  wife. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't  know  it !  "  he  replied 
gruffly.  "  I  have  n't  fallen  over  forty 
children  a  minute  in  the  street  with  their 
ridiculous  parcels,  and  I  have  n't  had 
women  drop  brown-paper  bundles  that 
come  undone  all  over  me  when  they 
crowd  into  the  horse  car,  and  I  have  n't 
found  it  impossible  to  get  to  the  shirt- 
collar  counter  on  account  of  Christmas 
novelties  !  Oh,  no,  I  did  n't  know  it 
was  Christmas  ! " 

After  that  there  was  really  not  much  to 
be  said,  for  we  all  know  Christmas  is 
dreadfully  annoying,  and  the  last  thing  a 
man  in  this  sort  of  temper  wants  to  hear 
about  is  peace  and  good  will. 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Gilton  looked  over  to  her  neighbors'  with 
an  envious  feeling  this  dark  afternoon, 
their  Christmas  cheer  was  not  so  abound- 
ing as  it  had  been  in  more  prosperous 
times.  There  was  not  very  much  money 
ii 


A  Christmas  Accident 

to  be  spent  this  year,  and  they  were 
obliged  to  give  up  something.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bilton  had  decided  that  it  should 
be  the  Christmas  dinner ;  they  would 
have  a  simple  luncheon,  and  let  all  the 
money  that  could  be  spared  go  for  the 
stockings.  Each  child  had  its  own  sum 
to  invest  for  others,  and  there  was  still 
a  small  amount  for  the  older  members 
of  the  family.  That  it  was  a  small 
amount  Mrs.  Bilton  felt  strongly,  as 
she  went  from  shop  to  shop.  But  when 
she  reached  home  again  she  was  some- 
what encouraged ;  there  was  such  an  air 
of  joyous  expectation  in  the  house,  and 
her  purchases  looked  larger  now  that 
they  were  away  from  the  glittering  coun- 
ters. Then  each  of  the  five  children 
came  to  her  separately  and  confided  to  her 
the  nothing  less  than  wonderful  results  of 
judicious  bargaining  which  had  enabled 
them  to  buy  useful  and  beautiful  presents 
for  each  of  the  others  out  of  the  sums 
intrusted  to  their  care,  ranging  in  amount 

12 


A  Christmas  Accident 

from  the  two  dollars  of  John  to  the  fifty 
cents  of  Cora  Cordelia.  She  felt  sure 
that  there  were  further  secrets  yet ;  se- 
crets attended  by  brown  paper  and  string, 
which  she  had  taken  the  greatest  care  for 
the  last  two  weeks  not  heedlessly  to  ex- 
pose,—  riddles  of  which  the  solution  lay 
perilously  near  her  eyes,  which  would  be 
revealed  to  her  astonished  gaze  the  next 
morning. 

She  had  reason  to  believe  that  even 
Cora  Cordelia  was  making  something  for 
her,  and  though  it  was  difficult  for  her  to 
ignore  the  fact  that  it  was  a  knit  wash- 
cloth, she  had  hitherto  avoided  absolute 
certainty  on  the  subject.  So  that  alto- 
gether it  was  a  pretty  cheerful  afternoon 
at  the  Biltons'. 

Meanwhile,  down  in  the  main  street 
of  the  city  it  was  a  confusing  scene.  It 
was  darker  there  than  where  the  streets 
were  more  open ;  and  although  there  were 
several  daring  spirits  of  that  adventurous 
turn  of  mind  which  leads  people  into 
13 


A  Christmas  Accident 

byways  of  discovery,  who  asserted  that 
the  street  lamps  were  lighted,  it  was 
not  generally  believed.  The  snow  was 
blowing  down  and  up  and  across,  and 
getting  more  and  more  unmanageable 
under  the  feet  of  foot  passengers  every 
moment.  It  was  cold  and  windy  and 
blinding  and  crowded,  and  a  good  many 
other  disconcerting  things,  all  of  which 
Mr.  Gilton  felt  the  full  force  of  as  he 
stood  on  the  corner  where  he  had  just 
bought  his  turkey.  It  was  a  fine  turkey, 
and  had  been  a  good  bargain,  and  though 
he  had  to  carry  it  home  himself,  there  was 
nothing  derogatory  in  that.  If  it  had  been 
anybody  else  he  would  have  been  thrilled 
with  a  glow  of  satisfaction,  but  Mr.  Gilton 
was  long  past  glows  of  satisfaction  —  it 
was  years  since  he  had  permitted  himself 
to  have  such  things. 

"  Jour — our — nal !  fi-i— i-ve  cents  !  " 
screamed  an  intermittent  newsboy  in  his 
ear. 

"  Get  out  !  "  replied  Mr.  Gilton,  the 
14 


A  Christmas  Accident 

uncompromising  nature  of  his  language 
being  intensified  by  the  fact  that  he 
jumped  nearly  two  feet  from  the  sudden- 
ness of  the  newsboy's  attack.  Even  the 
newsboy,  inured  to  the  short  words  of  an 
unfriendly  world,  and  usually  quite  indiffer- 
ent thereto,  was  impressed  by  the  asperity 
of  the  suggestion  and  moved  somewhat 
hastily  on.  Possibly  his  cold,  wet  little 
existence  had  been  rendered  morbidly  sus- 
ceptible by  the  general  good  feeling  of  the 
hour,  one  lady  having  even  spontaneously 
given  him  five  cents. 

After  this  exchange  of  amenities  Mr. 
Gilton  stepped  into  his  horse  car.  It 
was  crowded,  of  course,  as  horse  cars 
that  are  small  and  run  once  in  half  an 
hour  are  apt  to  be,  and  he  had  to  stand 
up,  and  the  turkey  legs  stuck  out  of 
the  brown  paper  in  a  very  conspicuous 
way.  If  Mr.  Gilton  had  been  anybody 
else  he  would  have  been  chaffed  about  his 
turkey,  because  to  make  up  for  the  con- 
veniences that  the  horse  car  line  did  not 
15 


A  Christmas  Accident 

furnish  the  public,  the  large-hearted  public 
furnished  the  horse  car  line  with  an  un- 
usual amount  of  friendliness.  There  was 
almost  always  something  going  on  in  these 
horse  cars.  Their  social  privileges  were 
quite  a  feature.  To-night  they  were  in 
unusual  force  on  account  of  the  season. 
But  nobody  said  anything  to  Mr.  Gilton. 
Only  when  he  jerked  the  bell  and  stepped 
off,  one  stout  man  with  his  overcoat  collar 
turned  up  to  his  ears  said,  without  turning 
his  head  :  — 

"I  supposed  of  course  he  was  going  to 
give  the  turkey  to  the  conductor." 

Everybody  laughed  in  that  end  of  the 
car  except  one  small  old  lady  in  the  corner, 
who  was  a  stranger  and  visiting,  and  who 
was  left  with  the  impression  that  the  gen- 
tleman who  got  off  must  be  a  very  kind 
man.  It  was  darker  and  blowier  and 
snowier  than  when  he  had  left  the  corner, 
and  Mr.  Gilton  floundered  through  the 
unbroken  drifts  up  the  little  path  to  the 
door  with  increasing  grudges  in  his  heart 
16 


A  Christmas  Accident 

against  the  difficulties  of  Christmas.  The 
lock  was  off,  and  he  went  in  slamming 
the  door  after  him.  There  was  no  light 
in  the  hall,  and  he  murmured  loudly 
against  the  inconvenience. 

"  Confound  it !  "  he  said,  "  why  did  n't 
they  light  the  gas  ?  I  'm  not  one  of  those 
confounded  Biltons ;  I  can  afford  to  pay 
for  what  I  don't  get ;  "  and,  without  paus- 
ing to  take  off  his  hat  and  coat,  he  strode 
to  the  sitting-room  door  and  flung  it  open. 
That  was  an  awful  moment.  The  sudden 
change  from  the  cold  and  darkness  almost 
blinded  him,  and  confirmed  the  impression 
that  he  was  the  victim  of  an  illusion.  The 
sound  of  many  voices,  and  then  the  hush 
of  sudden  consternation,  was  in  his  ears. 
There  was  a  lamp  and  there  was  a  fire, 
and  there  between  them  sat  Mr.  Bilton  on 
one  side  and  Mrs.  Bilton  on  the  other, 
and  round  about,  in  various  unconventional 
attitudes,  sat  four  Bilton  children.  And 
there  in  the  very  midst  of  them,  in  his 
heavy  overcoat,  with  snow  melting  on  his 
2  17 


A  Christmas  Accident 

hat,  his  beard,  and  his  shoulders,  stood 
Mr.  Gilton.  The  unexpected  scene,  the 
amazed  faces  gazing  into  his,  rendered 
him  speechless ;  he  wondered  vaguely  if 
he  were  losing  his  reason.  Then,  in  a 
flush  of  enlightenment,  he  realized  what 
had  happened ;  thanks  to  the  storm  outside, 
he  had  come  into  the  wrong  house.  Natur- 
ally his  first  impulse  was  towards  flight, 
but  as  his  bewildered  gaze  slipped  about 
the  room  it  fell  upon  five  stockings  hung 
against  the  mantelpiece,  and  stayed  there 
fascinated.  Five  foolish,  limp,  expression- 
less stockings,  —  it  was  long  since  he  had 
seen  such  an  unreasonable  spectacle.  Then 
he  recollected  himself  and  looked  around 
him.  Perhaps  even  then,  if  he  had  made 
a  dash  for  the  door,  he  might  have  es- 
caped and  matters  have  been  none  the 
worse.  But  in  that  instant  of  hesitation 
caused  by  the  sudden  sight  of  those  five 
stockings  something  dreadful  occurred.  It 
must  be  premised  that  Cora  Cordelia  did 
not  know  Mr.  Gilton  very  well  by  sight, 
18 


A  Christmas  Accident 

being  in  the  first  place  small  and  not  no- 
ticing, and  in  the  second,  filled  with  an 
unreasoning  fear  that  caused  her  to  flee 
whenever  she  had  seen  him  approach.  This 
is  the  only  excuse  for  what  she  did ;  for 
while  her  mother  was  feebly  murmuring, 
as  if  in  extenuation,  "  We  thought  it  was 
John  coming  in,"  Cora  Cordelia  clasped 
her  hands  in  delirious  delight,  and  cried 
aloud,  "  It 's  Santa  Claus  !  Oh,  it 's  Santa 
Claus ! "  Could  anything  more  awful 
happen  to  a  cross  man,  a  very  cross  man, 
than  to  be  taken  for  Santa  Claus ! 

Mr.  Gilton  looked  at  Cora  Cordelia, 
and  wondered  why  she  had  not  been 
slaughtered  in  her  cradle. 

"And,"  exclaimed  Susan  Bilton,  with 
sudden  communicative  fervor,  ."  he  has 
come  and  brought  us  a  turkey  for  to- 
morrow's dinner ! " 

The  truth  was  that  Susan  had  been 
coming  to  the  age  that  is  sceptical  about 
Santa  Claus,  but  she  could  not  resist  this 
sudden  appearance. 

19 


A  Christmas  Accident 

No  one  could  appreciate  the  nonsense 
of  the  whole  situation  better  than  Mr. 
Gilton ;  and  yet,  strangely  enough,  together 
with  his  annoyance  was  mingled  a  touch 
of  the  strange  feeling  that  had  dawned 
upon  him  first  when  he  saw  the  stockings. 
To  be  sure,  it  only  added  to  his  annoy- 
ance, but  it  was  there.  By  this  time  —  it 
was  really  a  very  short  time  —  Mrs.  Bil- 
ton  had  recovered  herself  and  risen,  and 
Mr.  Bilton  had  risen  too. 

"  Hush,  children  ;  it  is  not  Santa  Claus," 
she  said,  "  it  is  Mr.  Gilton.  We  are  glad 
to  see  you,  Mr.  Gilton ; "  and  she  held 
out  her  hand  to  him.  "  Won't  you  sit 
down  ? "  She  felt  that  he  had  come  in 
the  Christmas  spirit,  and  she  was  anxious 
to  meet  him  half-way. 

"Yes,"  said  her  husband,  coming  for- 
ward, and  instantly  taking  his  cue  from  his 
wife,  —  for  he  was  really  a  very  nice  man, 
— "  we  are  very  glad."  To  be  sure,  in 
his  manner  there  was  a  certain  stiffness, 
for  a  man  cannot  always  change  com- 
20 


A  Christmas  Accident 

pletely  in  a  moment,  as  a  woman  can ; 
but  Mr.  Gilton  was  too  perplexed  to  no- 
tice this.  In  the  incomprehensible  way 
that  one 's  mind  has  of  clinging  to  unim- 
portant things  at  great  crises,  while  he  was 
fuming  with  rage  and  bothered  with  this 
strange  feeling  which  was  not  precisely 
rage,  he  was  wondering  how  in  the  world 
he  was  going  to  sit  down  with  that  ridicu- 
lous turkey,  with  its  ridiculous  legs,  in  his 
arms,  and  not  look  more  absurd  than  he 
did  now.  In  this  moment  of  absent- 
mindedness  he  had  mechanically  taken 
Mrs.  Bilton's  hand  and  shaken  it,  and 
after  that  of  course  there  was  nothing  to 
do  except  to  shake  Mr.  Bilton's.  Then 
he  began  to  know  it  was  all  up.  He  had 
not  spoken  yet,  but  now  he  made  a  frantic 
effort  to  save  what  might  be  left  besides 
honor.  "  I  came  —  "  he  began,  "  I  came 
—  came  to  your  house  —  "  There  he 
paused  a  moment,  and  that  unlucky  child 
with  that  tendency  to  be  possessed  by  one 
idea,  which  is  characteristic  of  small  and 

21 


A  Christmas  Accident 

trivial  minds,  and  for  which  she  should 
have  been  shaken,  burst  in  with,  "  And 
did  the  reindeer  bring  you,  and  are  they 
outside  ?  " 

He  almost  groaned,  so  overwhelmed 
was  he  by  this  new  idiocy.  Reindeer  ! 
If  those  overworked,  struggling  car-horses 
could  have  heard  that !  Then  Mrs. 
Bilton,  pitying  his  evident  confusion, 
came  to  his  assistance. 

"  Don't  mind  the  children,  Mr.  Gilton," 
she  said,  her  cheeks  flushing,  and  looking 
very  pretty  with  the  excitement  of  the 
unusual  circumstances,  "  we  are  glad  you 
came,  however  you  made  your  way  here. 
I  think  we  may  thank  Christmas  Eve  for 
it.  Now  do  take  off  your  overcoat  and  sit 
down." 

Oh,  mispraised  woman's  tact !  What 
complications  you  may  produce  !  That 
finished  it,  of  course.  He  sat  down.  In 
those  few  moments  that  strange  feeling 
had  grown  marvellously  stronger.  It 
seemed  to  be  made  up  of  the  most  diverse 


A  Christmas  Accident 

elements,  —  a  mixture  of  green  wreaths  and 
his  own  childhood,  and  his  mother,  and  a 
top  he  had  not  thought  of  for  years,  and 
the  wide  fireplace  at  home,  and  a  stable 
with  a  child  in  it,  and  a  picture,  in  a  book 
he  used  to  read,  of  a  lot  of  angels  in  the 
sky,  one  particular  one  in  the  middle,  and 
underneath  it  some  words  —  what  were 
the  words  ?  He  'd  forgotten  they  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  Christmas,  anyway. 

"  But  you  did  bring  us  the  turkey,  did  n't 
you  ? "  said  Cora  Cordelia,  helping  her 
mother  on. 

To  do  the  child  justice,  —  for  even  Cora 
Cordelia  has  a  right  to  demand  justice,  — 
her  manners  were  corrupted  by  Christmas 
expectancy. 

"  Cora  Cordelia,  I  'm  ashamed  of  you," 
said  Mrs.  Bilton. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Gilton,  the  words 
wrung  from  his  lips,  while  beads  stood  on 
his  forehead,  — "  yes,  I  brought  you  the 
turkey." 

"  Did  you  really  ? "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
23 


A  Christmas  Accident 

Bilton,  who  thought  he  had  all  the  time. 
"  That  was  very  kind  of  you." 

"  Will  you  please  take  it  —  take  it 
away  ? "  he  said,  with  that  wish  to  have 
something  over  which  we  associate  with 
the  dentist.  So  Mrs.  Bilton  took  the  tur- 
key and  thanked  him,  and  gave  it  to  Fanny, 
who  carried  it  out  to  the  kitchen,  and  Mr. 
Gilton  gave  one  last  look  at  its  legs  as  it 
went  through  the  door,  feeling  that  now 
he  must  wake  up  from  this  nightmare. 
But  things  only  went  farther  and  became 
more  incredible  and  upsetting,  only  that, 
strangely  enough,  that  feeling  of  horror 
began  to  wear  off,  and  that  singular  strain 
of  association  with  all  sorts  of  Christmas 
things  to  grow  stronger.  He  himself  could 
hardly  believe  that  it  was  no  worse,  when 
he  found  himself  seated  by  the  littered 
table,  with  Mrs.  Bilton  near  and  Mr. 
Bilton  over  by  the  fire  again,  listening  to 
first  one  and  then  the  other,  and  occasion- 
ally letting  fall  a  word  himself,  his  conver- 
sational powers  seeming  to  thaw  out  along 
24 


A  Christmas  Accident 

with  the  snow  on  his  greatcoat.  These 
words  themselves  were  a  surprise  to  him. 
He  was  quite  sure  that  he  started  them 
with  a  creditable  gruffness,  but  the  Christ- 
mas air  mellowed  them  in  a  highly  unsatis- 
factory fashion,  so  that  they  fell  on  his 
own  ears  quite  otherwise  than  as  he  had 
meant  they  should  sound.  Moreover  the 
general  tenor  of  the  conversation  was  ex- 
ceedingly perplexing.  It  was  all  about 
how  fine  it  was  of  him  to  come  this 
evening,  and  how  they  had  often  regretted 
the  hard  feeling,  and  how  things  always 
did  get  exaggerated.  Of  course  he  would 
not  have  believed  a  word  of  it,  if  he  had 
been  able  to  get  any  grip  on  the  situation, 
but  he  was  n't,  and  he  just  went  on  as- 
senting to  it  all  as  if  it  were  true.  There 
came  a  time  when  Mr.  Bilton  cleared  his 
throat,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said 
boldly,  — 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Gilton, 
that  I  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the 
death  of  your  dog."     Mr.  Gilton  felt  the 
25 


A  Christmas  Accident 

ground  slipping  away  from  under  his  very 
feet.  That  dog  had  been  his  piece  of 
resistance,  as  it  were.  "  I  would  n't  have 
poisoned  him,"  went  on  Mr.  Bilton,  "  for 
a  hundred  dollars.  But,"  he  added,  with 
a  queer  little  smile,  "  I  was  n't  going  to 
tell  you  so,  you  know." 

"  Of  course  you  was  n't,"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Gilton,  hurriedly,  with  a  touch  of  that 
unholy  excitement  that  a  lapse  from  gram- 
mar imparts. 

"  We  would  n't  any  of  us,"  asserted 
Walter. 

"  No,"  said  Susan,  Fanny,  and  Cora 
Cordelia. 

Then  it  came  out  that  the  whole  family 
had  rather  admired  the  dog  than  otherwise. 
It  was  here  that  John  did  really  come  in, 
his  entrance  sounding  very  much  as  had 
Mr.  Gilton's.  He  nearly  fell  over  when 
he  saw  the  visitor,  but  he  had  time  to  pull 
himself  together,  for  Cora  Cordelia  had 
snatched  that  moment  for  showing  Mr. 
Gilton  her  gifts  for  the  family,  and  he 
26 


A  Christmas  Accident 

was  bound  hand  and  foot  with  helpless- 
ness. Then  they  all  came  and  showed 
him  their  gifts.  While  he  examined  them 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bilton  carefully  averted 
their  eyes  and  gazed  hard  at  the  opposite 
wall,  while  Cora  Cordelia  urged  him,  in 
stage  whispers,  not  to  let  them  suspect. 
It  was  pitiable  the  state  to  which  he  was 
reduced.  Of  course  resisting  this  Christ- 
mas enthusiasm  was  out  of  the  question. 
To  be  sure  it  came  over  him  once  with 
startling  force,  as  she  showed  him  a  toy 
water-wheel,  that  went  by  sand,  —  which 
she  had  purchased  for  her  father  at  a 
phenomenally  low  rate  because  the  wheel 
could  not  be  made  to  go,  —  that  Cora  Cor- 
delia was  the  very  child  that  he  had  fallen 
over  as  she  came  hastening  out  of  a  toy- 
shop with  a  queerly  shaped  bundle,  the  day 
before,  and  so  been  further  imbittered 
towards  Christmas.  Susan  had  purchased 
a  cup  and  ball  for  her  mother,  and  as  she 
went  out  of  the  room  for  a  moment,  in- 
sisted upon  Mr.  Gilton's  trying  to  do  it 
27 


A  Christmas  Accident 

and  see  what  fun  it  was.  If  Mr.  Gilton 
lives  to  be  a  hundred  he  will  never  for- 
get the  mingled  feelings  with  which  he 
awkwardly  tried  to  get  that  senseless  ball 
into  that  idiotic  cup.  At  last  he  stood 
up  to  go  —  it  was  after  six  o'clock  — 
and  they  went  with  him  to  the  door, 
and  wished  him  Merry  Christmas,  and 
sent  Merry  Christmas  to  Mrs.  Gilton, 
and  said  good-night  several  times,  and  he 
stumbled  on  through  the  snow,  this  time 
towards  his  own  door.  It  had  stopped 
snowing  as  suddenly  and  quietly  as  it  had 
begun,  and  the  stars  had  come  out.  He 
gazed  up  at  them,  —  something  he  very 
rarely  did.  They  seemed  a  part  of  Christ- 
mas. Just  before  he  turned  in  at  his  own 
gate,  he  looked  back  at  the  Bilton  house 
and  shook  his  fist  at  it,  but  the  expression 
on  his  face  was  such  that  the  very  same 
newsboy  who  had  accosted  him  earlier 
failed  utterly  to  recognize  him  and  was 
emboldened  to  offer  him  a  paper.  He 
too  was  pushing  his  way  home  with 
28 


A  Christmas  Accident 

two  papers  left,  in  a  somewhat  dispirited 
way. 

"  I  '11  take  'em  both,"  said  this  singular 
customer.  "Here's  a  quarter  —  never 
mind  the  change.  It 's  Christmas  Eve,  I 
believe  —  "  and  this  when  he  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  a  copy  of  that  very  same, 
journal  was  waiting  for  him  on  his 
table.  The  boy  looked  at  his  quarter 
and  looked  again  at  his  customer,  and 
recognized  him,  and  made  up  his  mind 
to  buy  a  couple  of  hot  sausages  on  the 
corner,  and  went  on  his  way  feeling  that 
there  was  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth. 
Mrs.  Gilton  was  standing  at  the  parlor 
window,  peering  out  anxiously  as  he 
came  up  the  path.  She  was  in  the  hall 
as  he  entered. 

"Why,  Reuben,"  she  said,  "  I  was  afraid 
something  had  happened."  . 

Goodness  gracious !  As  if  something 
had  n't  happened  !  He  turned  away  to 
hang  up  his  overcoat  and  tried  to  speak 
crossly. 

29 


A  Christmas  Accident 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  've  lost  my  turkey. 
That 's  happened." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Gilton, 
quickly ;  u  the  other  one  came  later,  the 
first  one,  you  know — so  —  so  the  Bil- 
tons  did  n't  get  it  this  time." 

"  They  got  the  second  one,  though," 
said  Reuben,  hanging  up  his  hat. 

"  Oh,  dear,  did  they  !  "  said  Mrs.  Gilton. 
Then  she  went  on,  "Well,  I  don't  care 
if  they  did,  so  there !  I  guess  they  need 
it  for  their  Christmas  dinner." 

"  No,  they  don  't,"  said  Reuben,  turn- 
ing around  and  facing  her,  "  because  they 
are  going  to  eat  part  of  ours.  They  are 
coming  in  to-morrow  to  have  dinner  with 
us,  —  every  one  of  them !  "  he  asserted 
more  loudly,  on  account  of  the  expression 
on  his  wife's  face.  "  Bilton,  and  his  wife, 
and  all  the  five  children,  down  to  Cora 
Cordelia !  So  we  '11  have  to  have  some- 
thing for  them  to  eat." 

If  Mr.  Gilton  will  never  forget  the  cup 
and  ball,  Mrs.  Gilton  will  never  forget 
30 


A  Christmas  Accident 

that  moment.  She  went  all  over  it  in  her 
mind  whether  she  could  manage  him  her- 
self to-night,  or  whether  to  send  Bridget 
right  away  then  for  the  doctor,  and  if  she 
hadn't  better  say  a  policeman  too,  and 
whether  he  could  be  kept  for  the  future  in 
a  private  house,  or  would  have  to  be  con- 
fined in  an  asylum.  She  was  inclining 
towards  the  asylum  when  he,  who  was 
going  into  the  sitting-room  before  her, 
turned  round  and  laughed  an  odd  little 
laugh.  She  began  to  think  then  that  a 
private  house  would  do. 

The  next  day  they  all  dined  together, 
which  proved  that  it  was  not  all  a  Christ- 
mas Eve  illusion.  There  is  a  report  in 
the  neighborhood  that  the  fence  between 
the  houses  is  to  be  taken  down  to  make 
room  for  a  tennis  court  for  the  Bilton 
children,  but  of  course  this  may  not  be  true. 
It  would  have  to  be  done  in  the  summer, 
and  if  th.e  effect  of  Christmas  could  be 
depended  upon  to  last  into  the  summer  this 
would  be  a  very  different  sort  of  world. 


After  —  the   Deluge 

HTHE  sombre  tints  of  Grayhead  were 
slightly  suffused  by  a  pink  light 
sifting  from  the  west  through  the  clear  air. 
The  yachts  in  the  harbor  lay  idly  beneath 
the  mellow  influences  of  the  passing  of 
the  summer  day,  —  idly  as  only  sailboats 
can  lie,  a  bit  of  loose  sail  or  cordage  now 
and  then  flapping  inconsistently  in  a  breath 
of  wind,  which  seemed  to  come  out  of 
the  west  for  no  other  purpose,  and  to  re- 
tire into  the  east  afterward,  its  whole  duty 
done.  On  board,  men  were  moving 
about,  hanging  lanterns,  making  taut  here, 
setting  free  there,  all  with  an  air  of  utter 
peace  and  repose  such  as  is  found  only  on 
placid  waterways  beneath  a  setting  sun. 
Occasionally  an  oar  dipped  in  the  still 
water,  a  hint  of  action,  modified,  softened 
32 


After  —  the  Deluge 

into  repose.  Along  one  of  the  quaint 
streets  of  the  irregular  town,  winding 
where  it  would,  climbing  where  it  climbed, 
hurried  an  angular  figure,  —  that  of  a 
woman  of  about  fifty  years,  whose  tense 
expression  suggested  an  unrest  at  va- 
riance with  the  keen  calmness  of  that 
of  the  other  faces  about  the  streets  and 
doorways.  Not  that  it  was  feverish  in 
its  intensity ;  rather,  it  was  an  expression 
of  resolution,  undeviating  and  persistent, 
but  not  sure  of  sympathy  or  support. 

"  They  've  gone  down  yonder,  t  'other 
side  of  the  wharf,  Mis'  Pember,"  said  a 
middle-aged  sea  captain,  whose  interest  in 
his  kind  had  not  been  obliterated  by  the 
forced  loneliness  of  northern  voyages. 

The  woman  paused  and  glanced  doubt- 
fully down  one  of  the  byways  that  led 
between  small,  weather-beaten  houses  and 
around  disconcerting  abutments  to  the 
water,  and  then  forward,  straight  along 
the  way  she  had  been  travelling,  which  led 
out  of  the  town. 

3  33 


After  —  the  Deluge 

"  I  'd  rather  fixed  on  their  going  down 
Point-ways  this  evening,"  she  said. 

"Well,  they  ain't,"  rejoined  Captain 
Phippeny,  with  that  absence  of  mere  rhet- 
oric characteristic  of  people  whose  solid 
work  is  done  otherwise  than  by  speech. 

Mrs.  Pember  nodded,  at  once  in  ac- 
knowledgment and  farewell,  and,  turning 
about,  followed  the  path  he  had  indicated, 
her  gait  acquiring  a  certain  precipitancy 
as  she  went  down  the  rough,  stony  slope. 
At  the  foot  of  the  descent  she  paused 
again,  and  looked  to  the  right  and  left. 
Captain  Phippeny  was  watching  her  from 
his  vantage  ground  above.  His  figure 
was  one  unmistakably  of  the  seaboard. 
His  trousers  were  of  a  singular  cut,  prob- 
ably after  a  pattern  evolved  in  all  its 
originality  by  Mrs.  Phippeny,  her  active 
imagination  working  towards  practical  ef- 
fect. In  addition,  he  wore  a  yellow  flan- 
nel shirt  ribbed  with  purple,  which  would 
hopelessly  have  jaundiced  a  rose-leaf  com- 
plexion, but  which,  having  exhausted  its 
34 


After  —  the  Deluge 

malignancy  without  producing  any  partic- 
ular effect,  ended  by  gently  harmonizing 
with  the  captain's  sandy  hair,  reddish 
beard,  and  tanned  skin.  His  mouth  was 
like  a  badly  made  buttonhole,  which  gaped 
a  little  when  he  smiled.  He  had  a  nose 
like  a  parrot's  beak,  and  his  eyes  were 
blue,  kindly,  and  wise  in  their  straightfor- 
wardness. When  he  would  render  his 
costume  absolutely  de  rigueur,  he  wore  a 
leathern  jacket  with  manifold  pockets, 
from  one  to  another  of  which  trailed  a 
gold  watch-chain  with  a  dangling  horse- 
shoe charm. 

"I  wonder  the  old  woman  don't  take  a 
dog  with  her  and  trace  'em  out,  she  spends 
so  much  time  on  the  hunt,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "  I  declare  for't,  it 's  a  sing'lar  thing 
the  way  she  everlastin'  does  get  onto  them 
'prentices  j  ain't  old  enough  to  talk  about 
settin'  sail  by  themselves." 

His  quid  of  tobacco  again  resumed  its 
claim  to  his  undivided  attention,  and  he 
leaned  back  against  the  fence  and  waited 
35 


After  —  the  Deluge 

as  idly  as  the  drooping  sails  for  a  breath  of 
something  stirring.  By  and  by  it  appeared 
in  the  shape  of  another  old  sailor,  between 
whom  and  himself  there  was  the  likeness 
of  two  peas,  save  for  a  slight  discrepancy 
of  feature  useful  for  purposes  of  identifi- 
cation. 

"  You  told  her  where  they  'd  gone, 
I  reckon,"  he  remarked,  with  a  slight 
chuckle,  as  he  too  leaned  up  against  the 
fence  and  looked  out  over  the  harbor. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  replied  Captain  Phippeny. 
"  I  did  n't  have  no  call  to  tell  her  a  lie." 

"  Kinder  hard  on  the  young  uns,"  ob- 
served the  new-comer. 

"  They  ain't  ever  anythin'  as  hard  on 
the  young  uns  as  on  the  old  uns,"  asserted 
Captain  Phippeny,  "  because — well,  be- 
cause they  're  young,  I  guess.  That 's 
Chivy's  yacht  that  came  in  just  at  sun- 
down, ain't  it  ?  " 

"  Yare.  They  say  she 's  seen  dirty 
weather  since  she  was  here  last." 

"  Has  ?  Well,  you  can't  stay  in  harbor 
36 


After  —  the  Deluge 

allers,  and  git  your  livin'  at  the  same  time. 
She 's  got  toler'ble  good  men  to  handle 
her." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  soft  twilight 
was  battening  down  the  hatches  of  the 
day,  to  drop  into  the  parlance  of  the 
locality. 

"  Well,  I  do  suppose  old  Pember  war  n't 
an  easy  shipmate,  blow  or  no  blow,"  ob- 
served Captain  Smart.  He  was  a  small, 
keen-eyed,  quickly  moving  old  man,  sea- 
soned with  salt. 

"  I  reckon  he  war  n't.  And  she  thinks 
she  can  keep  that  girl  of  hers  out  of  the 
same  kind  of  discipline  that  she  had  to 
take,  —  that 's  the  truth  of  it." 

"  Cur'ous,  ain't  it  ?  "  ruminated  Captain 
Smart.  "  A  woman  's  bound  to  take  it  one 
way  or  'nother ;  there  seems  to  be  more 
sorts  of  belayin'  pins  to  knock  'em  over 
with  than  they,  any  on  'em,  kinder  cal'late 
on  at  first." 

"  So  there  be,"  assented  Captain  Phip- 
peny. 

37 


After  —  the  Deluge 

Near  the  water,  with  its  fading,  rose- 
colored  reflections,  not  so  far  from  the 
anchored  vessels  but  they  might,  had  they 
chosen,  have  spoken  across  to  those  on 
board,  the  monotonous,  austere,  and  yet 
vaguely  soft  gray  of  the  old  town  rising 
behind  them  against  the  melting  sky,  sat 
Mellony  Pember  and  Ira  Baldwin. 

"  If  you  'd  only  make  up  your  mind, 
Mellony,"  urged  the  young  man. 

"  I  can't,  Ira ;  don't  ask  me."  The 
young  girl's  face,  which  was  delicate  in 
outline,  was  troubled,  and  the  sensitive 
curves  of  her  lips  trembled.  The  faded 
blue  of  her  dress  harmonized  with  the 
soft  tones  of  the  scene  ;  her  hat  lay  beside 
her,  an  uncurled,  articulated  ostrich  feather 
standing  up  in  it  like  an  exclamation  point 
of  brilliant  red. 

The  young  man  pulled  his  hat  over  his 
eyes  and  looked  over  to  the  nearest  boat. 
Mellony  glanced  at  him  timidly. 

"  You  see,  I  'm  all  she 's  got,"  she 
said. 

38 


After  —  the  Deluge 

"  I  ain't  goin*  to  take  you  away  from 
her,  unless  you  want  to  go,"  he  replied, 
without  looking  at  her. 

"  She  thinks  I  '11  be  happier  if  I  don't  — 
if  I  don't  marry." 

"  Happier  !  "  —  he  paused  in  scorn  — 
"  and  she  badgerin'  you  all  the  time  if  you 
take  a  walk  with  me,  and  watchin'  us  as 
if  we  were  thieves!  You  ain't  happy 
now,  are  you  ?  " 

"No."  Mellony's  eyes  filled,  and  a 
sigh  caught  and  became  almost  a  sob. 

"  Well,  I  wish  she  'd  give  me  a  try  at 
makin'  you  happy,  that 's  all."  His 
would-be  sulkiness  softened  into  a  tender 
sense  of  injury.  Mellony  twisted  hef 
hands  together,  and  looked  over  beyond 
the  vessels  to  the  long,  narrow  neck  of 
land  with  its  clustering  houses,  beyond 
which  again,  unseen,  were  booming  the 
waves  of  the  Atlantic. 

"  Oh,  if  I  only  knew  what  to  do ! " 
she  exclaimed,  —  "if  I  only  knew  what 
to  do !  " 

39 


After  —  the  Deluge 

«  I  '11  tell  you  what  to  do,  Mellony," 
he  began. 

"  There  's  ma,  now,"  she  interrupted. 

Ira  turned  quickly  and  looked  over  his 
shoulder.  Across  the  uneven  ground, 
straight  towards  them,  came  the  figure 
of  Mrs.  Pember.  The  tenseness  of  her 
expression  had  further  yielded  to  resolu- 
tion, which  had  in  turn  taken  on  a  sto- 
lidity which  declared  itself  unassailable. 
No  one  of  the  three  spoke  as  she  seated 
herself  on  a  bit  of  timber  near  them, 
and,  folding  her  hands,  waited  with  the 
immobility  and  the  apparent  impartiality 
of  Fate  itself.  At  last  Mellony  spoke, 
for  of  the  three  she  was  the  most 
acutely  sensitive  to  the  situation,  and  the 
least  capable  of  enduring  it  silently. 

"  Which  way  did  you  come,  ma  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  I  come  down  Rosaly's  Lane,"  Mrs. 
Pember  answered.  "  I  met  Cap'n  Phip- 
peny,  and  he  told  me  you  was  down 
here." 

40 


After  —  the  Deluge 

"  I  'm  obligated  to  Cap'n  Phippeny," 
observed  Ira,  bitterly. 

"  I  dono  as  he 's  partickler  to  have 
you,"  remarked  Mrs.  Pember,  imperturb- 
ably. 

There  was  another  silence.  Mrs. 
Pember' s  voice  had  a  marked  sweetness 
when  she  spoke  to  her  daughter,  which 
it  lost  entirely  when  she  addressed  her 
daughter's  companion,  but  always  it  was 
penetrated  by  the  timbre  of  a  certain 
inflexibility. 

The  shadows  grew  deeper  on  the  water, 
the  glow-worms  of  lanterns  glimmered 
more  sharply,  and  the  softness  of  the 
night  grew  more  palpable. 

"  I  guess  I  may  as  well  go  back,  ma," 
said  Mellony,  rising. 

"  I  was  wonderin'  when  you  cal'lated 
on  going,"  remarked  her  mother,  as 
she  rose  too,  more  slowly  and  stiffly, 
and  straightened  her  decent  black 
bonnet. 

"  I    suppose    you    was    afraid  Mellony 


After  —  the  Deluge 

would  n't  get  back  safe  without  you  came 
after  her,"  broke  out  Ira. 

"  I  guess  I  can  look  after  Mellony 
better  than  anybody  else  can,  and  I  count 
on  doing  it,  and  doing  it  right  along,"  she 
replied. 

"  Come,  ma,"  said  Mellony,  impa- 
tiently; but  she  waited  a  moment  and 
let  her  mother  pass  her,  while  she  looked 
back  at  Ira,  who  stood,  angry  and  help- 
less, kicking  at  the  rusted  timbers. 

"  Are  you  coming,  too,  Ira  ? "  she 
asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"  No,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  ain't  coming  ! 
I  don't  want  to  go  along  back  with  your 
mother  and  you,  as  if  we  were  n't  old 
enough  to  be  out  by  ourselves.  I  might 
as  well  be  handcuffed,  and  so  might  you  ! 
If  you  '11  come  round  with  me  the  way  we 
came,  and  let  her  go  the  way  she  came, 
I  '11  go  with  you  fast  enough." 

Mellony's  eyes  grew  wet  again,  as 
she  looked  from  him  to  her  mother,  and 
again  at  him.  Mrs.  Pember  had  paused, 
42 


After  —  the  Deluge 

also,  and  stood  a  little  in  advance  of  them. 
Her  stolidity  showed  no  anxiety  ;  she  was 
too  sure  of  the  result. 

"  No,"  —  Mellony's  lips  framed  the 
words  with  an  accustomed  but  grievous 
patience,  — "  I  can't  to-night,  Ira ;  I 
must  go  with  ma." 

"  It 's  to-night  that  '11  be  the  last  chance 
there  '11  be,  maybe,"  he  muttered,  as  he 
flung  himself  off  in  the  other  direction. 

The  two  women  walked  together  up 
the  rough  ascent,  and  turned  into  Rosaly's 
Lane.  Mellony  walked  wearily,  her  eyes 
down,  the  red  feather,  in  its  uncurled,  un- 
lovely assertiveness,  looking  more  like  the 
oriflamme  of  a  forlorn  hope  than  ever. 
But  Mrs.  Pember  held  herself  erect,  and 
as  if  she  were  obliged  carefully  to  repress 
what  might  have  been  the  signs  of  an  ill- 
judged  triumph. 

Ira  prolonged  his  walk  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  little  gray  town,  goaded  by  the  irri- 
tating pricks  of  resentment.  He  would 
bear  it  no  longer,  so  he  told  himself. 
43 


After  —  the  Deluge 

Mellony  could  take  him  or  leave  him. 
He  would  be  a  laughing-stock  not  another 
week,  not  another  day.  If  Mellony 
would  not  assert  herself  against  her  tyran- 
nical old  mother,  he  would  go  away  and 
leave  her  !  And  then  he  paused,  as  he  had 
paused  so  often  in  the  flood  of  his  anger, 
faced  by  the  realization  that  this  was  just 
what  Mrs.  Pember  wanted,  just  what 
would  satisfy  her,  what  she  had  been 
waiting  for,  —  that  he  should  go  away 
and  leave  Mellony  alone.  It  was  an  ex- 
asperating dilemma,  his  abdication  and  her 
triumph,  or  his  uncertainty  and  her  anxiety. 

Mellony  and  her  mother  passed  Captain 
Phippeny  and  Captain  Smart,  who  still 
stood  talking  in  the  summer  evening,  the 
fence  continuing  to  supply  all  the  support 
their  stalwart  frames  needed  in  this  their 
hour  of  ease.  Captain  Smart  nudged 
Captain  Phippeny  as  the  two  figures 
turned  the  corner  of  Rosaly's  Lane. 

"  So  you  found  'em,  Mis'  Pember," 
remarked  Captain  Phippeny.  He  spoke 
44 


After  —  the  Deluge 

to  the  mother,  but  he  looked,  not  without 
sympathy,  at  the  daughter. 

"  Yes,  I  found  'em." 

"  You  reckoned  on  fetchin'  only  one  of 
'em  home,  I  take  it,"  said  Captain  Smart. 

"  I  ain't  responsible  but  for  one  of 
'em,"  replied  Mrs.  Pember  with  some 
grimness,  but  with  her  eyes  averted  from 
Mellony's  crimsoning  face. 

"  Come,  ma,"  said  Mellony  again,  and 
they  passed  on. 

"  Mis'  Pember  is  a  likely  enough  lookin' 
woman  herself,"  observed  Captain  Smart ; 
"  it 's  kind  of  cur'ous  she  should  be  so  set 
agen  marryin,'  just  as  marryin'." 

"  'T  is  so,"  assented  Captain  Phippeny, 
thoughtfully,  looking  after  the  two  women. 

Without  speaking,  Mellony  and  her 
mother  entered  the  little  house  where  they 
lived,  and  the  young  girl  sank  down  in  the 
stiff,  high-backed  rocker,  with  its  thin 
calico-covered  cushion  tied  with  red  braid, 
that  stood  by  the  window.  Outside,  the 
summer  night  buzzed  and  hummed,  and 
45 


After  —  the  Deluge 

breathed  sweet  odors.  Mrs.  Pember  moved 
about  the  room,  slightly  altering  its  arrange- 
ments, now  and  then  looking  at  her  daugh- 
ter half  furtively,  as  if  waiting  for  her  to 
speak ;  but  Mellony's  head  was  not  turned 
from  the  open  window,  and  she  was  utterly 
silent.  At  last  this  immobility  had  a  sym- 
pathetic effect  upon  the  mother,  and  she 
seated  herself  not  far  from  the  girl,  her 
hands,  with  their  prominent  knuckles  and 
shrunken  flesh,  folded  in  unaccustomed 
idleness,  and  waited,  while  in  the  room  dusk 
grew  to  dark.  To  Mellony  the  hour  was 
filled  with  suggestions  that  emphasized 
and  defined  her  misery.  In  her  not  tur- 
bulent or  passionate  nature,  the  acme  of 
its  capacity  for  emotional  suffering  had  been 
reached.  Hitherto  this  suffering  had  been 
of  the  perplexed,  patient,  submissive  kind ; 
to-night,  the  beauty  of  the  softly  descend- 
ing gloom,  the  gentle  freedom  of  the  placid 
harbor,  the  revolt  of  her  usually  yielding 
lover,  deepened  it  into  something  more 
acute. 

46 


After  —  the  Deluge 

"  Mellony,"  said  her  mother,  with  a 
touch  of  that  timidity  which  appeared  only 
in  her  speech  with  her  daughter,  "  did  you 
count  on  going  over  to  the  Neck  to- 
morrow, as  you  promised  ?  " 

"  I  '11  never  count  on  doing  anything 
again,"  said  Mellony,  in  a  voice  she  tried 
to  make  cold  and  even,  but  which  vibrated 
notwithstanding,  —  "  never,  so  long  as  I 
live.  I  '11  never  think,  or  plan,  or  —  or 
speak,  if  I  can  help  it  —  of  what  I  mean 
to  do.  I  '11  never  do  anything  but  just 
work  and  shut  my  eyes  and  —  and  live,  if 
I  've  got  to  !  "  Her  voice  broke,  and  she 
turned  her  head  away  from  the  open  win- 
dow and  looked  straight  before  her  into  the 
shadowed  room.  Her  mother  moved  un- 
easily, and  her  knotted  hands  grasped  the 
arms  of  the  stiff"  chair  in  which  she  sat. 

"  Mellony,"  she  said  again,  "  you  've  no 
call  to  talk  so." 

"  I  've  no  call  to  talk  at  all.  I  've  no 
place  anywhere.  I  'm  not  anybody.  I 
have  n't  any  life  of  my  own."  The  keen 
47 


After  —  the  Deluge 

brutality  of  the  thoughtlessness  of  youth, 
and  its  ignoring  of  all  claims  but  those  of 
its  own  happiness,  came  oddly  from  the 
lips  of  submissive  Mellony.  Mrs.  Pember 
quivered  under  it. 

"  You  know  you  're  my  girl,  Mellony," 
she  answered  gently.  "  You  're  all  I  've 
got." 

"  Yes,"  the  other  answered  indiffer- 
ently, "  that 's  all  I  am,  —  Mellony  Pem- 
ber, Mrs.  Pember's  girl, — just  that." 

"  Ain't  that  enough  ?  Ain't  that  some- 
thing to  be,  —  all  I  plan  for  and  work 
for  ?  Ain't  that  enough  for  a  girl  to  be  ?  " 

Mellony  turned  her  eyes  from  empti- 
ness, and  fixed  them  upon  her  mother's 
face,  dimly  outlined  in  the  vagueness. 

"  Is  that  all  you  've  been,"  she  asked, 
"just  somebody's  daughter  ?  " 

It  was  as  if  a  heavy  weight  fell  from 
her  lips  and  settled  upon  her  mother's 
heart.  There  was  a  silence.  Mellony's 
eyes,  though  she  could  not  see  them, 
seemed  to  Mrs.  Pember  to  demand  an 
48 


After  —  the  Deluge 

answer  in  an  imperative  fashion  unlike 
their  usual  mildness. 

"  It 's  because  I  've  been,  —  it 's  because 
I  'd  save  you  from  what  I  have  been  that 
I  —  do  as  I  do.  You  know  that,"  she 
said. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  saved,"  returned 
the  other,  quickly  and  sharply. 

The  older  woman  was  faced  by  a  situ- 
ation she  had  never  dreamed  of,  —  a 
demand  to  be  allowed  to  suffer !  The 
guardian  had  not  expected  this  from  her 
carefully  shielded  charge. 

"  I  want  you  to  have  a  happy  life,"  she 
added. 

"  A  happy  life  !  "  flashed  the  girl.  "And 
you  're  keeping  me  from  any  life  at  all ! 
That's  what  I  want,  —  life,  my  own  life, 
not  what  anybody  else  gives  me  of  theirs. 
Why  should  n't  I  have  what  they  have, 
even  if  it 's  bad  now  and  then  ?  Don't 
save  me  in  spite  of  myself!  Nobody  likes 
to  be  saved  in  spite  of  themselves." 

It  was  a  long  speech  for  Mellony.  A 
4  49 


After  —  the  Deluge 

large  moon  had  risen,  and  from  the  low 
horizon  sent  golden  shafts  of  light  almost 
into  the  room ;  it  was  as  if  the  placidity 
of  the  night  were  suddenly  penetrated  by 
something  more  glowing.  Mellony  stood 
looking  down  at  her  mother,  like  a  judge. 
Mrs.  Pember  gazed  at  her  steadily. 

"  I  'm  going  to  save  you,  Mellony," 
she  said,  her  indomitable  will  making  her 
voice  harsher  than  it  had  been,  "  whether 
you  want  to  be  saved  or  not.  I  'm  not 
going  to  have  you  marry,  and  be  sworn  at 
and  cuffed."  Mellony  moved  to  protest, 
but  her  strength  was  futility  beside  her 
mother's  at  a  time  like  this.  "  I  'm  not 
going  to  have  you  slave  and  grub,  and  get 
blows  for  your  pains.  I  'm  going  to  fol- 
low you  about  and  set  wherever  you  be, 
whenever  you  go  off  with  Ira  Baldwin,  if 
that  '11  stop  it ;  and  if  that  won't,  I  '11  try 
some  other  way,  —  I  know  other  ways. 
I  'm  not  going  to  have  you  marry  !  I  'm 
going  to  have  you  stay  along  with  me  !  " 

With  a  slight  gesture  of  despair,  Mel- 
50 


After  —  the  Deluge 

lony  turned  away.  The  flash  had  burned 
itself  out.  The  stronger  nature  had  reas- 
serted itself.  Silently,  feeling  her  help- 
lessness, frightened  at  her  own  rebellion 
now  that  it  was  over,  she  went  out  of  the 
room  to  her  own  smaller  one,  and  closed 
the  door. 

Mrs.  Pember  sat  silent  in  her  turn,  re- 
viewing her  daughter's  resentment,  but 
the  matter  admitted  no  modifications  in 
her  mind ;  her  duty  was  clear,  and  her 
determination  had  been  taken  long  ago. 
Neither  did  she  fear  anything  like  persist- 
ent opposition ;  she  knew  her  daughter's 
submissive  nature  well. 

Brought  up  in  a  country  village,  an  ear- 
nest and  somewhat  apprehensive  member 
of  the  church,  Mrs.  Pember  had  married 
the  captain  early  in  life,  under  what  she 
had  since  grown  to  consider  a  systematic 
illusion  conceived  and  maintained  by  the 
Evil  One,  but  which  was,  perhaps,  more 
logically  due  to  the  disconcerting  good 
looks  and  decorously  restrained  impetuosity 


After  —  the  Deluge 

of  Captain  Pember  himself.  Possibly  he 
had  been  the  victim  of  an  illusion  too,  not 
believing  that  austerity  of  principle  could 
exist  with  such  bright  eyes  and  red  cheeks 
as  charmed  him  in  the  country  girl.  At 
least,  he  never  hesitated  subsequently,  not 
only  to  imply,  but  to  state  baldly,  a  sense 
of  the  existence  of  injury.  Captain  Phip- 
peny  was  one  of  those  sailors  whom  the 
change  of  scene,  the  wide  knowledge  of 
men  and  of  things,  the  hardships  and  dan- 
gers of  a  sea  life,  broaden  and  render  tol- 
erant and  somewhat  wise.  Pember  had 
been  brutalized  by  these  same  things. 

The  inhabitants  of  Grayhead  were  dis- 
tinguished by  the  breadth  and  suggestive- 
ness  of  their  profanity,  and  Captain  Pember 
had  been  a  past  master  of  the  accomplish- 
ment. Praise  from  Sir  Hubert  Stanley 
could  have  been  no  more  discriminating 
than  the  local  acknowledgment  of  his 
proficiency  in  this  line.  No  wonder  Mrs. 
Pember  looked  back  at  the  ten  years  of 
her  married  life  with  a  shudder.  With 

52 


After  —  the  Deluge 

the  rigid  training  of  her  somewhat  dog- 
matic communion  still  potent,  she  listened 
in  a  horrified  expectancy,  rather  actual 
than  figurative,  for  the  heavens  to  strike 
or  the  earth  to  swallow  up  her  nonchalant 
husband.  Nor  was  this  all.  The  weak- 
ness for  grog,  unfortunately  supposed  to 
be  inherent  in  a  nautical  existence,  was 
carried  by  Captain  Pember  to  an  extent 
inconsiderate  even  in  the  eyes  of  a  sea- 
faring public ;  and  when,  under  its  genial 
influence,  he  knocked  his  wife  down  and 
tormented  Mellony,  the  opinion  of  this 
same  public  declared  itself  on  the  side  of 
the  victims  with  a  unanimity  which  is  not 
always  to  be  counted  upon  in  such  cases. 
In  fact,  her  married  life  had,  as  it  were, 
formalized  many  hitherto  somewhat  vague 
details  of  Mrs.  Pember's  conception  of  the 
place  of  future  punishment;  and  when 
her  husband  died  in  an  appropriate  and  in- 
decorous fashion  as  the  result  of  a  brawl, 
he  continued  to  mitigate  the  relief  of  the 
event  by  leaving  in  his  wife's  heart  a 
53 


After  —  the  Deluge 

haunting  fear,  begotten  of  New  England 
conscientiousness,  that  perhaps  she  ought 
not  to  be  so  unmistakably  glad  of  it.  It 
was  thus  that,  with  Mellony's  growth 
from  childhood  to  womanhood,  the  burn- 
ing regret  for  her  former  unmarried  state, 
whose  difficulties  had  been  mainly  theolog- 
ical, had  become  a  no  less  burning  resolve 
that  her  child  should  never  suffer  as  she 
had  suffered,  but  should  be  guarded  from 
matrimony  as  from  death.  That  she 
failed  to  distinguish  between  individuals, 
that  she  failed  to  see  that  young  Baldwin 
was  destitute  of  those  traits  which  her 
sharpened  vision  would  now  have  detected 
in  -Pember's  youth,  was  both  the  fault  of 
her  perceptive  qualities  and  the  fruit  of 
her  impregnable  resolve.  She  had  been 
hurt  by  Mellony's  rebellion,  but  not  influ- 
enced by  so  much  as  a  hair's-breadth. 

Early  one  morning,  two  or   three  days 

later,  Mrs.   Pember,  lying   awake  waiting 

for    the    light    to  grow  brighter  that  she 

might  begin  her  day,  heard  a  slight  sound 

54 


After  —  the  Deluge 

outside,  of  a  certain  incisiveness  out  of 
proportion  to  its  volume.  With  an  idle- 
ness that  visited  her  only  at  early  day- 
break, she  wondered  what  it  was.  It  was 
repeated,  and  this  time,  moved  by  an  in- 
sistent curiosity  blended  with  the  recogni- 
tion of  its  probable  cause,  she  rose  and 
looked  out  of  the  window  which  was  close 
to  the  head  of  her  bed.  A  little  pier  was 
a  stone's  throw  from  the  house  on  that 
side,  at  which  were  moored  several  boats 
belonging  to  the  fishermen  about.  It  was 
as  she  thought ;  a  stooping  figure,  dim  and 
hazy  in  the  morning  fog,  which  blurred 
the  nearest  outlines  and  veiled  the  more 
distant,  was  untying  one  of  the  boats,  and 
had  slipped  the  oars  into  the  rowlocks. 

"  Going  fishing  early,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. "  I  wonder  which  of  'em  it  is. 
They  are  all  alike  in  this  light." 

Then  she   stood   and  looked  out  upon 

the    morning    world.     It  would   soon    be 

sunrise.     Meanwhile,  the  earth  was  silent, 

save  for  the  soft  rippling  of  the  untired 

55 


After  —  the  Deluge 

waves  that  scarcely  rose  and  fell  in  this 
sheltered  harbor;  the  land  had  been  at 
rest  through  the  short  night,  but  they  had 
climbed  and  lapsed  again  steadily  through 
its  hours;  the  paling  stars  would  soon 
have  faded  into  the  haze.  The  expec- 
tation of  the  creature  waited  for  the 
manifestation. 

Softly  the  boat  floated  away  from  its 
moorings.  It  seemed  propelled  without 
effort,  so  quietly  it  slipped  through  the 
water.  In  the  bottom  lay  the  sail  and  the 
nets,  a  shadowy  mass ;  the  boat  itself  was 
little  more  than  a  shadow,  as  it  glided  on 
into  the  thicker  fog  which  received  and 
enveloped  it,  as  into  an  unknown  vague 
future  which  concealed  and  yet  held 
promise  and  welcome. 

Mrs.  Pember  glanced  at  the  clock.  It 
was  very  early,  but  to  go  back  to  bed 
was  hardly  worth  while.  The  sun  was 
already  beginning  to  glint  through  the 
fog.  She  dressed,  and,  passing  softly  the 
door  of  the  room  where  Mellony  slept,  — 
56 


After  —  the  Deluge 

rather  fitfully  of  late,  —  began  to  make 
the  fire. 

The  morning  broadened  and  blazed 
into  the  day,  and  the  whole  town  was 
making  ready  for  its  breakfast.  Mellony 
was  later  than  usual,  —  her  mother  did  not 
hear  her  moving  about,  even ;  but  she 
was  unwilling  to  disturb  her;  she  would 
wait  a  while  longer  before  calling  her. 
At  last,  however,  the  conviction  of  the 
immorality  of  late  rising  could  no  longer 
be  ignored,  and  she  turned  the  knob  of 
Mellony's  door  and  stepped  into  the 
room. 

She  had  been  mistaken  in  supposing 
that  Mellony  was  asleep ;  the  girl  must 
have  risen  early  and  slipped  out,  for  the 
room  was  empty,  and  Mrs.  Pember 
paused,  surprised  that  she  had  not  heard 
her  go.  It  must  have  been  while  she  was 
getting  kindling-wood  in  the  yard  that 
Mellony  had  left  by  the  street  door.  And 
what  could  she  have  wanted  so  early  in 
the  village  ?  —  for  to  the  village  she  must 
57. 


After  —  the  Deluge 

have  gone ;  she  was  nowhere  about  the 
little  place,  whose  flatness  dropped,  tree- 
less, to  the  shore.  Her  mother  went 
again  to  the  kitchen,  and  glanced  up  and 
down  the  waterside.  There  was  no  one 
on  the  little  wooden  pier,  and  the  boats 
swung  gently  by  its  side,  their  own  among 
them,  so  Mellony  had  not  gone  out  in 
that.  Yes,  she  must  have  gone  to  the 
village,  and  Mrs.  Pember  opened  the  front 
door  and  scanned  the  wandering  little 
street.  It  was  almost  empty ;  the  early 
morning  activity  of  the  place  was  in  other 
directions. 

With  the  vague  uneasiness  that  unac- 
customed and  unexplained  absence  always 
produces,  but  with  no  actual  apprehension, 
Mrs.  Pember  went  back  to  her  work. 
Mellony  had  certain  mild  whims  of  her 
own,  but  it  was  surprising  that  she  should 
have  left  her  room  in  disorder,  the  bed 
unmade ;  that  was  not  like  her  studious 
neatness.  With  a  certain  grimness  Mrs. 
Pember  ate  her  breakfast  alone.  Of 
58 


After  —  the  Deluge 

course  no  harm  had  come  to  Mellony,  but 
where  was  she  ?  Unacknowledged,  the 
shadow  of  Ira  Baldwin  fell  across  her 
wonder.  Had  Mellony  cared  so  much  for 
him  that  her  disappointment  had  driven 
her  to  something  wild  and  fatal  ?  She  did 
not  ask  the  question,  but  her  lips  grew 
white  and  stiff  at  the  faintest  suggestion 
of  it.  Several  times  she  went  to  the  door, 
meaning  to  go  out,  and  up  the  street  to 
look  for  her  daughter,  but  each  time  some- 
thing withheld  her.  Instead,  with  that 
determination  that  distinguished  her,  she 
busied  herself  with  trifling  duties.  It  was 
quite  nine  o'clock  when  she  saw  Captain 
Phippeny  coming  up  the  street.  She 
stood  still  and  watched  him  approach. 
His  gait  was  more  rolling  than  ever,  as  he 
came  slowly  towards  her,  and  he  glanced 
furtively  ahead  at  her  house,  and  then 
dropped  his  eyes  and  pretended  not  to 
have  seen  her.  She  grew  impatient  to 
have  him  reach  her,  but  she  only  pressed 
her  lips  together  and  stood  the  more  rig- 
59 


After  —  the  Deluge 

idly  still.  At  last  he  stood  in  front  of 
her  doorstone,  his  hat  in  his  hand.  The 
yellow  shirt  and  the  leathern  jacket  were 
more  succinctly  audacious  than  ever,  but 
doubt  and  irresolution  in  every  turn  of 
his  blue  eyes  and  line  of  his  weather- 
beaten  face  had  taken  the  place  of  the 
tolerant  kindliness. 

11  It's  a  warm  mornin',  Mis'  Pember," 
he  observed,  more  disconcerted  than  ever 
by  her  unsmiling  alertness. 

"You  came  a  good  ways  to  tell  me 
that,  Captain  Phippeny." 

"Yes,  I  did.  Leastways  I  didn't,"  he 
responded.  "  I  come  to  tell  you  about  — 
about  Mellony." 

"  What  about  Mellony,  Captain  Phip- 
peny ? "  she  demanded,  pale,  but  uncom- 
promising. "  What  have  you  got  to  tell 
me  about  Mellony  Pember  ?  "  she  reiter- 
ated as  he  paused. 

"Not  Mellony  Pember,"  gasped  the 
captain,  a  three-cornered  smile  trying  to 
make  headway  against  his  embarrassment 
60  v 


After  —  the  Deluge 

as  he  recalled  the  ancient  tale  of  breaking 
the  news  to  the  Widow  Smith;  "  Mellony 
Baldwin." 

"  Mellony  Baldwin  !  "  repeated  Mrs. 
Pember,  stonily,  not  yet  fully  compre- 
hending. 

The  captain  grew  more  and  more 
nervous. 

"  Yes,"  he  proceeded,  with  the  haste  of 
despair,  "  yes,  Mis'  Pember,  you  see  Mel- 
lony —  Mellony's  married." 

"  Mellony  married  !  "  Strangely  enough 
she  had  not  thought  of  that.  She  grasped 
the  doorpost  for  support. 

"  Yes,  she  up  and  married  him,"  went 
on  the  captain  more  blithely.  "  I  hardly 
thought  it  of  Mellony,"  he  added  in  not 
unpleasurable  reflection,  "  nor  yet  of  Ira." 

"Nor  I  either."  Mrs.  Pember's  lips 
moved  with  difficulty.  Mellony  married  ! 
The  structure  reared  with  tears  and 
prayers,  the  structure  of  Mellony's  happi- 
ness, seemed  to  crumble  before  her  eyes. 

u  And  I  was  to  give  you  this ; "  and 
61 


After  —  the  Deluge 

from  the  lining  of  his  hat  the  captain  drew 
forth  a  folded  paper. 

"  Then  you  knew  about  it  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Pember,  in  a  flash  of  cold  wrath. 

u  No,  no,  I  did  n't.  My  daughter's 
boy  brought  this  to  me,  and  I  was  to  tell 
you  they  was  married.  And  why  they 
set  the  job  onto  me  the  Lord  he  only 
knows  !  "  and  Captain  Phippeny  wiped  his 
heated  forehead  with  feeling ;  "  but  that 's 
all  /  know." 

Slowly,  her  fingers  trembling,  she  un- 
folded the  note. 

"  I  have  married  Ira,  mother,"  she  read. 
"He  took  me  away  in  a  boat  early  this 
morning.  It  was  the  only  way.  I  will 
come  back  when  you  want  me.  If  I  am 
to  be  unhappy,  I  'd  rather  be  unhappy  this 
way.  I  can't  be  unhappy  your  way  any 
longer.  I  'm  sorry  to  go  against  you, 
mother ;  but  it 's  my  life,  after  all,  not 
yours,  MELLONY." 

As  Mrs.  Pember's  hands  fell  to  her  side 
and  the  note  slipped  from  her  fingers,  the 
62 


After  —  the  Deluge 

daily  tragedy  of  her  married  life  seemed  to 
pass  before  her  eyes.  She  saw  Captain 
Pember  reel  into  the  house,  she  shuddered 
at  his  blasphemy,  she  felt  the  sting  of  the 
first  blow  he  had  given  her,  she  cowered 
as  he  roughly  shook  Mellony's  little  frame 
by  her  childish  arm. 

"  She  'd  better  be  dead  !  "  she  murmured. 
"  I  wish  she  was  dead." 

Captain  Phippeny  pulled  himself  to- 
gether. "  No,  she  had  n't,  —  no,  you 
don't,  Mis'  Pember,"  he  declared  stoutly. 
"  You  're  making  a  mistake.  You  don't 
want  to  see  Mellony  dead  any  more  'n  I 
do.  She  's  only  got  married,  when  all 's 
said  and  done,  and  there 's  a  sight  of  folks 
gets  married  and  none  the  worse  for  it. 
Ira  Baldwin  ain't  any  great  shakes,  —  I 
dono  as  he  is ;  he 's  kinder  light  com- 
plected and  soft  spoken, — but  he  ain't  a 
born  fool,  and  that 's  a  good  deal,  Mis' 
Pember."  He  paused  impressively,  but 
she  did  not  speak.  "  And  he  ain't  goin' 
to  beat  Mellony,  either ;  he  ain't  that 
63 


After  —  the  Deluge 

sort.  I  guess  Mellony  could  tackle  him, 
if  it  came  to  that,  anyhow.  I  tell  you, 
Mis'  Pember,  there  's  one  thing  you  don't 
take  no  reckonin'  on,  —  there  's  a  differ- 
ence in  husbands,  there  's  a  ter'ble  differ- 
ence in  'em  !  "  Mrs.  Pember  looked  at 
him  vaguely.  Why  did  he  go  on  talking  ? 
Mellony  was  married.  "  Mellony 's  got 
one  kind,  and  you  —  well,"  he  went  on, 
with  cautious  delicacy,  "  somehow  you  got 
another.  I  tell  you  it 's  husbands  as 
makes  the  difference  to  a  woman  when  it 
comes  to  marryin'." 

Mrs.  Pember  stooped,  picked  up  the 
note,  turned  and  walked  into  the  living- 
room  and  sat  down.  She  looked  about 
her  with  that  sense  of  unreality  that  visits 
us  at  times.  There  was  the  chair  in  which 
Mellony  sat  the  night  of  her  rebellious 
outbreak,  —  Mellony,  her  daughter,  her 
married  daughter.  Other  women  talked 
about  their  "  married  daughters "  easily 
enough,  and  she  had  pitied  them;  now  she 
would  have  to  talk  so,  too.  She  felt  un- 
64 


After  —  the  Deluge 
o 

utterably  lonely.  Her  household,  like  her 
hope,  was  shattered.  She  looked  up  and 
saw  that  Captain  Phippeny  had  followed 
her  in  and  was  standing  before  her,  turn- 
ing his  hat  in  his  brown,  tattooed  hands. 

"  Mis'  Pember,"  he  said,  "  I  thought, 
mebbe,  now  Mellony  was  married,  you  'd 
be  thinkin'  of  matrimony  yourself  agen." 
As  Mrs.  Pember  gazed  at  him  dumbly  it 
seemed  as  if  she  must  all  at  once  have 
become  another  person.  Matrimony  had 
suddenly  become  domesticated,  as  it  were. 
Her  eyes  travelled  over  the  horseshoe 
charm  and  the  long  gold  chain,  as  she  lis- 
tened, and  from  pocket  to  pocket.  "  And 
so  I  wanted  to  say  that  I  'd  like  to  have 
you  think  of  me,  if  you  was  making  out 
the  papers  for  another  v'yage.  The  first 
mate  I  sailed  with,  she  says  to  me  when 
she  died,  c  You  've  been  a  good  husband, 
Phippeny,'  says  she.  I  would  n't  say 
anythin'  to  you,  I  would  n't  take  the  resk, 
if  she  had  n't  said  that  to  me,  Mis' 
Pember,  and  I  'm  tellin'  it  to  you  now 
5  65 


After  —  the  Deluge 

because  there  's  such  a  difference  ;  and  I 
feel  kinder  encouraged  by  it  to  ask  you 
to  try  me.  I  'd  like  to  have  you  marry 
me,  Mis'  Pember." 

It  was  a  long  speech,  and  the  captain 
was  near  to  suffocation  when  it  was  fin- 
ished, but  he  watched  her  with  anxious 
keenness  as  he  waited  for  her  to  reply. 
The  stern  lines  of  her  mouth  relaxed 
slowly.  A  brilliant  red  geranium  in  the 
.vindow  glowed  in  the  sunlight  which  had 
just  reached  it.  The  world  was  not  all 
dark.  The  room  seemed  less  lonely  with 
the  captain  in  it,  as  she  glanced  around  it 
a  second  time.  She  scanned  his  face :  the 
buttonhole  of  a  mouth  had  a  kindly  twist ; 
he  did  not  look  in  the  least  like  handsome 
Dick  Pember.  Mellony  had  married,  and 
her  world  was  in  fragments,  and  some- 
thing must  come  after. 

"  I  never  heard  as  you  were  n't  a  good 

husband     to    Mis'     Phippeny,"    she     said 

calmly, "and  I  dono  as  anybody '11  make  any 

objection  if  I  marry  you,  Captain  Phippeny." 

66 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

PHE  other  day  I  spent  several  hours 
in  looking  over  a  lot  of  dusty  vol- 
umes which  had  fallen  to  me  in  the  way 
of  inheritance.  In  the  somewhat  hetero- 
geneous collection  I  came  upon  a  brief 
memoir  which,  after  a  glance  within,  I 
laid  aside  as  worthy,  at  least,  of  perusal. 
The  other  books  were  of  little  value  of 
any  sort  —  an  orthodox  commentary,  an 
odd  volume  of  a  county  history,  one  or 
two  cook-books,  a  worn  and  broken  set 
of  certain  standard  British  authors,  —  the 
usual  assortment  to  be  found  in  a  country 
farmhouse,  whose  occupants  soon  ceased 
to  keep  up  with  the  times.  But  this 
little  book  seemed  to  me  unusual,  —  an 
opinion  subsequently  confirmed  by  exami- 
nation. I  had  long  ago  discovered  the 
67 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

fallacy  of  that  tradition  of  early  youth 
that  a  memoir  is,  of  necessity,  dull,  and  I 
was  in  nowise  unfavorably  affected  by 
the  title,  "  Memoir  of  Mary  Twining." 
There  proved  to  be  something  to  me  sin- 
gularly quaint  and  charming  in  this  little 
sketch,  something  fresh  and  new  in  this 
voice  from  bygone  years.  The  subject 
of  the  memoir  attracted  me  powerfully, 
both  from  the  simplicity  and  natural- 
ness of  her  own  words,  and  the  freedom 
and  occasional  depth  of  both  thought  and 
expression,  in  a  day  when  freedom  and 
thinking  for  one's  self  were  less  the  fashion 
of  New  England  maidens  than  they  have 
since  become.  Or,  it  may  be  that  the 
Editor,  notwithstanding  an  occasional  stiff- 
ness and  apparent  want  of  sympathy, 
has  so  well  done  his  work,  has  under- 
stood so  well  what  to  give  us  and  what 
to  keep  from  us,  that  the  reader's  interest 
is  skilfully  fostered  from  the  start.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  I  have  not  been  able  to 
resist  the  temptation  to  write,  myself,  a 
68 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

little  of  this  memoir  and  its  subject,  to 
make  a  little  wider,  if  I  may,  the  public  who 
have  been  told  the  story  of  this  life.  Not 
that  it  was  an  exciting  or  an  eventful  one, 
though  lived  in  stirring  times,  but  as  I  have 
already  said,  it  seems  to  have  a  certain 
charm  which  should  not  be  left  forgotten 
in  country  garrets  or  unnoticed  in  second- 
hand bookstores.  With  no  further  apology 
for  this  review  of  it,  I  shall  let  the  book, 
as  far  as  possible,  speak  for  itself. 

Mary  Twining  was  born  in  Middle- 
port,  Massachusetts,  June  27,  1757. 
Her  father  fought  with  Colonel  Washing- 
ton in  the  French  and  Indian  War,  and 
subsequently  under  General  Washington 
in  a  later  disturbance.  Her  mother  was  a 
granddaughter  of  one  of  the  early  colonial 
governors.  Mary  seems  to  have  come 
naturally  enough  by  fine  impulses  and 
good  breeding. 

"It  is  not,"  says  the  conscientious 
biographer,  "  from  any  vain  Partiality  for 
high-sounding  names,  or  any  poor  Pretense 
69 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

of  good  blood,  which  were  most  out  of 
place  in  this  our  Republic,  made  so  by  the 
Genius  and  enduring  Fortitude  of  all 
classes  of  Men,  that  I  claim  for  Mary 
Twining  stately  Lineage,  but  that  when 
such  Accidents  fall  in  the  lives  of  Human 
Beings,  it  is  not  a  thing  to  make  light  of, 
but  worthy  of  study  in  its  Results.  Be- 
sides which  is  General  Washington  none 
the  less  a  Good  Soldier  in  that  he  is  a 
Gentleman." 

I  suspect  the  traditions  of  a  loyal  Eng- 
lishman had  not  been  wholly  eradicated 
from  the  mind  of  this  biographer  by  a  few 
years  of  plebeian  institutions.  With  equal 
truth  he  goes  on,  however,  to  say  that 
what  was  "  of  an  Importance  swallowing 
up  the  Lesser  Matter  of  Lineage  and  Sta- 
tion, Richard  Twining  was  an  upright  and 
a  God-fearing  man,  and  Mary,  his  wife, 
patterned  in  all  things  after  the  Behaviour 
of  her  godly  Ancestor."  Either  Richard 
or  Mary,  his  wife,  must  have  something 
u  patterned  "  after  a  liberal  and  occasion- 
70 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

ally  self-willed  model,  else  whence  came 
the  spice  of  independence  in  the  little 
Mary's  character  ?  She  was  an  only  child, 
and  only  children  were  probably  in  the 
middle  of  the  eighteenth  very  much  what 
they  are  in  the  close  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  —  little  beings  allowed  greater  lib- 
erties, and  burdened  with  heavier  accounta- 
bilities, than  where  there  are  more  to  divide 
both.  There  are  several  incidents  told  of 
her  childhood,  not  particularly  remarkable, 
perhaps,  but  showing  that  her  mind  and 
her  imagination  were  alive.  She  was  not 
by  any  means  a  precocious  child ;  her 
mind  was  but  little,  if  at  all,  in  advance  of 
her  years.  If  one  may  judge  from  de- 
tached anecdotes  and  descriptions,  she 
showed  no  more  than  the  receptivity  and 
quickness  natural  to  a  bright  and  some- 
what unusually  clear  intellect.  Through 
all  these  anecdotes  there  runs  a  vein  de- 
noting what  is  less  common  in  childhood 
than  a  certain  precocity,  —  a  keen  sense  of 
justice. "  She  appears  to  have  reasoned  of 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

many  things,  usually  taken  by  childhood 
for  granted,  and  assented  to  their  results 
only  if  they  seemed  to  her  childishness  just. 
If  after  life  showed  her  that  the  affairs  of 
this  life  can  be  but  seldom  regulated  accord- 
ing to  the  ideas  of  finite  justice,  she  never 
seems  to  have  lost  a  certain  fairness  of 
judgment  and  opinion,  which  is  rare  in  one 
of  her  sex  and  circumstances.  When  five 
years  old,  her  mother,  wishing  her  to  give 
up  a  pet  doll  to  a  little  crippled  friend, 
told  her  that  sympathy  should  suggest  her 
doing  it;  that  it  was  a  privilege  to  make 
another  happy;  that  it  was  selfishness  to 
prefer  her  own  pleasure  of  possession  to 
that  of  another.  But  Mary  listened  un- 
moved to  these  arguments.  Nevertheless 
the  struggle  was  not  a  long  one.  With  a 
good  grace,  after  a  few  moments  of  Silence, 
she  carried  the  doll  to  her  unfortunate 
friend.  "  Mamma,"  she  said  soberly, 
"  she  shall  have  it,  for  it  is  right  that  she 
should.  I  feel  it.  I  shall  have  many 
things  that  she  can  never  have." 
72 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

For  the  logic  of  five  years  it  was  no 
small  thing  to  have  settled  this  question  in 
this  way.  It  would  take  too  much  time 
and  too  much  space  to  dwell  on  the  an- 
ecdotes of  her  childhood.  Indeed,  the 
biographer  does  not  linger  on  them  long 
himself. 

"  It  is  meet,"  he  says,  "  to  speak  of 
these  early  Years,  not  from  a  desire  to 
show  that  there  was  aught  in  the  Child- 
hood of  Mary  Twining  remarkable  or 
unnatural,  that  should  be  the  Cause  of 
Wonder  or  Admiration.  But  the  rather 
that  there  may  be  evinced  the  Presence, 
even  in  the  Germ,  of  certain  Qualities  of 
Soundness  of  Judgment  and  of  Thought- 
fulness  unusual  in  a  Female,  which  grew 
with  her  Growth,  and  which  were  in  later 
Years,  developed  into  stronger  Traits  by 
no  unnatural  means." 

In    1773  she  was  sent  away  to  a  school 

in  which  she  remained  three  years,  varied 

by  occasional  visits  at  home.     She  made 

several  friends  here,  and  here,  for  the  first 

73 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

time,  kept  a  methodical  and  somewhat 
extended  diary.  From  this  diary  her  biog- 
rapher makes  copious  extracts.  In  fact, 
from  this  period  the  memoir  is  chiefly  made 
up  from  her  several  journals,  in  whose  con- 
tinuity there  are  now  and  then  large  gaps, 
with  occasional  notes.  I  shall  make  less 
copious  extracts,  principally  those  bearing 
upon  that  matter  of  which  we  always, 
more  or  less  consciously,  seek  traces  in 
the  lives  of  individuals,  distinguished  or 
obscure,  the  love  story.  But  first  for  her 
school  life,  into  which  few  whispers  of 
sentiment  penetrated.  It  was  no  fashion- 
able boarding-school  to  which  she  was  sent, 
attended  by  young  ladies  whose  dreams  of 
what  they  will  soon  be  doing  in  society 
monopolize  the  hours  nominally  devoted 
to  literature  and  the  sciences.  An  old 
friend  of  her  mother  opened  her  house  to 
a  few  representatives  of  those  families  with 
whom  she  was  acquainted,  where,  under 
the  best  teachers  the  country  afforded,  they 
were  trained  in  such  acquirements  as  were 
74 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

prescribed  by  the  canons  of  the  day.  On 
the  fifteenth  of  September  she  says  :  — 

"  I  have  been  something  more  than  a 
week  at  the  good  School  which  my  kind 
Parents  have  chosen  for  me.  There  seems, 
after  all,  to  be  little  doing  here.  The  few 
exercises  in  Mathematics,  and  the  selec- 
tions from  the  works  of  the  most  Highly 
Endowed  of  the  Authors  of  England  ap- 
pear to  me  to  be  the  most  Profitable.  As 
for  the  matter  of  Embroidery,  I  worked 
with  Patience,  ten  years  ago,  a  Sampler 
which  was  not  considered  discreditable,  and 
it  seems  to  me  that  of  the  multiplying  of 
Stitches  there  is  no  end,  and  it  were,  per- 
haps, as  well  to  go  no  farther.  My  daily 
Practice  on  the  Spinet,  may,  perhaps,  be 
the  means  of  giving  Pleasure  at  some 
Future  Time,  but  it  is  the  Occasion  of  but 
little  Benefit  in  the  Present,  and  of  the 
Future  can  we  be  never  certain." 

The  question  of  profitableness  of  a  good 
many  of  her  employments  was  often  in  her 
mind  during  these  three  years.  She  can- 
75 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

not  help  feeling  that  there  are  times  when 
it  is  hard  to  contentedly  fold  the  hands 
over  even  the  worsted  marvels  of  a  "  not 
discreditable  "  sampler.  A  year  later,  she 
says  again  :  — 

"  More  Practice  and  more  Embroidery 
this  afternoon.  There  are  those  of  my 
Companions  who  ask  nothing  better  than 
such  unvarying  Exercises.  In  them  they 
find  room  for  the  employing  of  their  Imag- 
ination and  their  Spirit.  I  wonder  if  it  be 
so  great  a  Fault  in  me,  that  I  find  them 
wearying.  It  is  not  that  they  are  in  them- 
selves so  distasteful,  as  it  is  that  there 
seemeth  much  work  waiting  to  be  done, 
which  a  woman's  Hands  might  well  do, 
were  it  not  reckoned  somewhat  unseemly." 

"  Her 's  was  a  somewhat  restless  Soul," 
says  her  biographer, "  perplexing  itself  with 
Questions  which  it  was  not  for  her  to 
answer." 

Yes,  with  questions  with  which  many  a 
restless  woman's  soul  has  since  perplexed 
itself,  and  which  are  now  only  beginning 
76 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

to  attain  solution.  It  is  pleasant  to  find, 
in  these  early  times,  when  we  fancy  New 
England  maidens  well  content  with  their 
spinning  and  bread-making,  hints  that  there 
were  enterprising  spirits  who  thought  the 
prescribed  round  a  too  narrow  one. 

She  finds  some  fault  with  one  of  her 
teachers  for  being  too  lenient  with  her. 

"  I  received  no  Reproof,"  she  says, 
"  to-day  when  I  most  Richly  deserved 
it.  A  Disturbance  in  the  Hour  for  Study 
was  entirely  of  my  own  making,  but  the 
Person  who  is  Master  at  that  Hour  re- 
fused, with  Persistence,  to  see  it.  I  made 
it  most  evident,  but  he  remarked,  with  a 
frown  for  a  less  Offender,  that  he  should 
hold  Mistress  Twining  excused.  I  shall 
find  Occasion  to  address  him  on  this  Sub- 
ject, for  if  I  receive  due  Credit  for  that 
which  I  do  that  is  Well  Done,  I  shall  show 
no  unwillingness  to  bear  the  Brunt  of  my 
Superior's  Displeasure  for  what  is  111  Done. 
Moreover,  I  will  not  have  it  otherwise." 

"  It  were  better,"  is  the  brief  comment, 
77 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

"  it  were  better  had  Mary  Twining  shown 
more  Regret  for  what  she  herself  confesses 
was  ill  done,  rather  than  that  she  should 
take  upon  herself  to  correct  the  Faults  of 
those  towards  whom  she  was  somewhat 
lacking  in  Reverence."  But  it  is  droll 
enough  to  fancy  the  scene  —  the  pretty 
schoolgirl  gravely  rebuking  her  delinquent 
master  for  the  too  great  partiality  her  own 
bright  eyes  had  won  for  her.  Poor  man ! 
His  was  no  sinecure.  To  hold  rule  over 
a  parcel  of  unruly  girls,  with  the  graces 
of  one  so  tugging  at  his  heartstrings  !  His 
path  might  at  least  have  been  spared  the 
thorn  of  having  his  fault  denounced  by  the 
very  voice  that  had  done  the  mischief. 

During  the  last  year  of  her  stay  she 
writes  less.  Did  the  objectlessness  of  this 
education  of  hers  pall  upon  the  energy  of 
her  nature  more  and  more  ?  Or  was  her 
woman's  heart  preparing  the  way  for  the 
answer  to  this  restless  questioning  ?  It  is 
only  now  and  then  that  we  catch  a  glimpse 
of  this  development,  which  was  singularly 
78 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

mature  and   singularly  free   from   restric- 
tion. 

"  I  have  read  many  Tales,"  she  says, 
"  how  true,  in  my  small  Experience,  I 
know  not,  of  the  aptitude  of  Women,  par- 
ticularly those  young  women  whose  char- 
acters are  in  a  state  of  most  Imperfect 
Development,  to  yield  in  matters  essential 
to  their  best  Happiness  to  the  Opposing 
Wishes  of  Parents  and  Guardians.  I  speak 
of  those  Matters,  perhaps  not  the  most 
fitting  for  the  Speculations  of  a  but  Par- 
tially-schooled Maiden  —  Love,  and  the 
Choosing  of  a  Husband.  While  in  these 
matters,  as  in  all  others,  the  Wishes  of 
Wise  and  Fond  Parents  and  Guardians 
are  the  only  safe  Guides  for  a  young  and 
Untrained  Spirit,  there  are  other  Cases 
where  Injustice  and  a  Desire  to  Rule  are 
but  slender  Grounds  for  the  exercise  of 
Authority.  I  know  that  my  Boldness  in 
this  Opinion  cannot  pass  even  my  own 
mind  unchallenged,  but  when  I  read  of 
Unwilling  Maids  forced  to  the  very  Church 
79 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

Door  or  Languishing  under  unmerited 
sternness,  and  Yielding  up  their  own  Hap- 
piness, and  that  of  another  (though  he  be 
a  Man)  into  the  Hands  of  an  unwise 
Judge  through  inability  to  resist  such  un- 
loving Pressure,  my  Nature  rebels  against 
it.  It  would  seem  to  me  cause  for  a 
Glad  and  an  Unfaltering  Resistance.  For 
a  Husband  is,  after  all,  a  Matter  for  a 
Maid's  own  choosing." 

u  The  beaten  path,"  says  the  biographer, 
"  had  ever  but  little  attraction  for  Mary 
Twining.  It  had  been  well  had  she  been 
less  fain  to  seek  Opportunity  for  a  Law- 
ful Resistance  to  Bonds.  It  seemeth  ever 
to  the  Young  that  such  opportunities  are 
not  long  in  coming." 

It  was  not  only  from  the  consciences 
of  the  colonial  fathers  that  the  stirrings 
of  independence  went  forth.  Apparently 
there  was  a  spirit  abroad  that  breathed 
now  and  then  from  the  lips  of  but  par- 
tially-schooled maidens.  Still,  it  is  not 
unruliness,  this  protest  of  a  young  and 
80 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

independent  spirit  against  the  slavishness 
now  and  then  upheld  in  certain  forms  of 
literature.  There  is  little  revolutionary, 
after  all,  in  Mary's  sentiment  that  "  a 
Husband  is  a  matter  for  a  Maid's  own 
choosing." 

But  we  must  pass  over  the  last  few 
notes  of  her  school  life.  At  nineteen  she 
left  school  forever. 

u  I  am  about  to  leave  this  little  Life  of 
School,"  she  writes,  "  for  a  larger  Life  of 
Home,  and  mayhap  a  Taste  of  that  Life 
which  is  called  of  the  World.  And  if  I 
be  not  now,  at  the  age  of  Nineteen  years, 
equipped  for  the  change  and  able  to  com- 
port myself  with  a  becoming  Discretion 
and  Dignity,  then  such  equipment  is  not 
to  be  found  within  these  Four  Walls  or  in 
daily  Practice  of  Music  and  Mathematics. 
Which,  though  I  be  filled  with  no  over- 
weening Distrust  of  my  own  Capabilities, 
seemeth  to  my  eyes  of  some  Doubt  and 
Difference  of  Opinion." 

"  On  a  certain  day  of  June,"  her  biog- 
6  81 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

rapher  goes  on  to  state,  "  Mistress  Mary 
Twining  was  placed  in  the  Coach  which 
should  take  her  a  Two  Days'  Journey  to 
her  Father's  House.  She  was  in  Company 
with  an  old  and  Reverend  Gentleman  of 
friendly  Disposition,  who  was  well  known 
to  her  Father  and  held  in  excellent  esteem 
of  him.  The  Fairness  of  a  Maid  is  but  a 
vain  Toy,  but,"  declares  this  most  staid 
biographer,  with  a  refreshing  candor,  "as 
it  is  a  matter  which  is  not  without  its 
effect  on  the  Fortunes  of  many,  it  is  not 
always  to  be  passed  over  in  the  Silence 
which  would  befit  a  Sober  Pen.  Mary 
Twining's  Hair  was  of  a  golden  Colour  and 
wound  itself  in  small,  and  not  always  tidy, 
Rings  about  her  Neck  and  Forehead.  Her 
eyes  were  of  a  darker  appearance  than  is 
common,  and  her  Mouth,  though  not  with- 
out a  certain  Winsomeness,  gave  Promise 
of  a  Firmness  of  Opinion  and  an  Indepen- 
dence which  was  perhaps  but  a  Sign  of  the 
Times,  which  her  small  and  shrewdly-set 
Nose  did  not  deny." 
82 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

I  more  than  suspect  that,  disclaim  it  as 
he  may,  our  discreet  biographer  was  in 
nowise  loath  to  dwell  a  little  on  this  vain 
toy  of  Mary's  personal  appearance.  I  even 
fancy  that  he  was  tempted  to  employ 
greater  latitude  of  expression,  which  only 
his  stern  sense  of  his  responsibilities  led 
him  to  reject,  in  the  description  of  that 
uncompromising  mouth,  not  to  mention 
the  spice  of  naughtiness  involved  in  that 
nose  so  "  shrewdly  set." 

Not  an  unattractive  picture  in  the  coach 
window,  this  June  day,  is  this  of  Mary 
Twining,  in  her  big  poke  bonnet,  white 
kerchief  and  short-waisted  gown.  And 
who  is  this,  who,  coming  at  the  last 
moment,  springs  into  a  vacant  place  at  her 
side,  under  the  very  eyes  of  the  reverend 
old  gentleman,  her  father's  friend  ?  The 
three-cornered  hat  which  he  doffs  with 
ceremonious  courtesy  to  the  fair  vision 
before  him,  the  powdered  queue,  the  high 
boots  with  jingling  spurs,  the  sword  at 
his  side,  are  not  unpicturesque  items  in 
83 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

our  nineteenth-century  eyes.  Were  they 
likely  to  be  so  in  the  eyes  of  this  nineteen- 
year-old  maiden  just  out  of  boarding- 
school  ? 

u  As  it  happened,"  says  the  biographer, 
"  there  went  down  the  same  day,  and  by 
the  same  Coach,  one  of  the  young  Aids  of 
our  General.  He  was  a  personable  Youth, 
and  the  Arrangement  of  the  many  Frip- 
peries of  the  Costume  of  a  young  Gallant 
did  naught  to  take  away  from  the  Face  and 
Figure  which  Providence  had  accorded  him. 
It  were  better  had  he  or  Mary  Twining 
chosen  another  Time  for  the  Journey." 

Neither,  probably,  did  a  natural  timidity 
of  disposition  do  aught  to  lessen  the  im- 
pression which  a  personable  young  man 
has  it  in  his  power  in  any  century  to  make 
upon  a  fair  and  observing  girl.  •-  Mary 
herself  says :  — 

"There    rode  down   with  us   a   young 

gallant  of  most   holiday   Appearance,  but 

not   ignorant  withal  of  the  working  days 

of  a  Soldier.     It  was  not  long  before  he 

84 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

had  entered  into  Conversation  with  Mr. 
Edwards,  who  had  knowledge  of  the 
young  Man's  Parents,  from  which  Con- 
versation I  learned  something  of  himself, 
though  most  modestly  told.  He  would 
fain  have  opened  the  Way  for  me  to  join 
in  my  Guardian's  Questioning,  but  I  bore  in 
Mind  the  Unseemliness  of  an  unwarranted 
Acquaintanceship,  and  sought  rather  to 
avoid  than  to  court  the  Glances  which  he 
was  not  over  cautious  in  sending  in  my 
Direction." 

"A  Maid's  avoidance,"  observes  the 
biographer,  "  of  a  Youth's  Glances,  is  not 
of  that  Nature  that  is  the  Cutting  off  of  all 
Hope." 

And  Fortune,  too,  was  not  of  so  per- 
verse a  disposition  in  fflis  June  weather  as 
she  is  sometimes.  For,  on  the  second 
day,  when  probably  glances,  so  conscien- 
tiously evaded,  had  become  but  the  accom- 
paniment of  spoken  words,  there  was  an 
accident.  The  coach,  as  coaches  are  apt 
to  do,  was  upset,  and  its  occupants  "  made 
85 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

haste  rather  as  they  could  than  as  they 
would,"  to  leave  it.  In  the  confusion  and 
tumbling  about  of  heavy  boxes  Mary  might 
have  been  badly  hurt,  had  not  the  young 
gallant,  quickly  springing  to  his  feet,  caught 
her  as  she  was  thrown  forward  by  a  second 
lurch  of  the  unwieldy  thing,  and,  lifting  her 
up,  carried  her  out  of  the  way  of  falling 
luggage  and  struggling  horses  to  a  place  of 
safety. 

"  He  lifted  me  as  though  I  had  been 
but  a  Feather's  weight,  showing  a  Strength 
which  is  indeed  Goodly  in  the  Sons  of 
Men,"  says  Mary  demurely,  "  and  which 
was  most  grateful  in  the  Stress  and  Confu- 
sion, and  in  its  display  most  Timely,  though 
perhaps,"  she  adds,  with  delicious  frank- 
ness, "  he  was  not  over  ready  to  put  me 
down  that  he  might  hasten  back  to  be  of 
further  help." 

"  My  Bonnet  was  awry,"  she  continues, 

"  my  Hair  in  sad  confusion,  and  my  Face  a 

Milkmaid  Red,  so  that  I  said  with  but  little 

Grace,  c  Sir,  I   fear  you   have  found  me  a 

86 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

grievous  Weight.'  Whereupon  he  an- 
swered me  that  so  light  was  my  weight, 
that  his  Heart  was  the  Heavier  for  the 
Putting  of  me  down,  which  was  a  Conceit 
not  reasonable  but  most  kindly  intended. 
Whereon  I  thanked  him,  and  he  vowed 
such  a  Burden  would  he  gladly  carry  to 
the  World's  End  had  he  but  Leave 
given." 

Another  picture  not  unpleasant  to  the 
mind's  eye,  the  overturned  coach,  the 
esteemed  guardian  of  the  youthful  beauty 
delaying  a  little  in  its  immediate  neigh- 
borhood, perhaps  to  secure  the  safety  of 
some  precious  package,  the  farm  laborers 
in  the  green  adjacent  fields  dropping  their 
tools  and  running  forward  to  help,  the 
outcry  and  confusion,  and  apart,  in  the 
summer  sunshine,  the  handsome  fellow 
with  the  flashing  sword  by  his  side,  listen- 
ing with  bent  head  and  admiring  eyes  to 
the  thanks  which  Mistress  Mary,  with 
her  untidy  hair  and  lifted  eyes,  was  ten- 
dering with  "but  little  Grace." 
87 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

"  Such  chance  meeting  of  the  Sexes," 
says  our  astute  commentator, "  where  ap- 
pear what  is  most  commanding  in  the  One 
and  most  dependent  in  the  Other,  are  but 
ill  advised.  The  Uttering  of  such  vain 
proffers  as  the  carrying  the  Burden  of 
Mary  Twining  to  the  World's  End,  and 
other  Foolishness,  hath  then  a  Savour  of 
Reality  which  concealeth  the  vain  Delu- 
sion." 

We  have  delayed  too  long  over  these 
extracts,  and  though  I  am  tempted  to  de- 
lay yet  longer,  so  quaint  is  the  contrast 
between  Mary  Twining's  youthful  and 
feminine  pen  and  that  of  her  critical 
biographer,  I  pass  on  to  a  time  some 
months  after  her  arrival  home.  Indeed, 
she  writes  little  in  the  interval.  The 
coming  into  a  new  and  wider  circle,  the 
adapting  herself  to  new  conditions,  leave 
her  scant  time  for  writing.  There  is  a 
rapid  noting  of  events,  for  it  was  an 
eventful  time,  —  the  mention  of  a  few  dis- 
tinguished names,  and  that  is  all.  But  in 
88 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

order  to  follow  the  thread  of  Mary  Twin- 
ing's  romance,  we  must  pause  at  the  ac- 
count of  a  ball  given  to  one  of  General 
Washington's  regiments  at  a  time  before 
the  rigor  of  war  had  quenched  all  thoughts 
of  merry-making.  It  was  not  her  first 
ball.  She  had  mixed  freely  in  society, 
and  had  measured  herself  with  the  men 
and  women  about  her,  —  always  an  inter- 
esting experience  to  the  free,  unprejudiced 
and  thoughtful  girl. 

"  It  was  a  joyous  Scene  enough,"  she 
writes,  "  but  I  myself  not  quite  in  the 
Humour  for  such  Junketing.  I  had  a 
gloomy  Fancy  that  Reason  would  not  dis- 
miss, that  in  these  Troublous  Times  there 
were  Things  outside  of  the  Ball  room 
Door,  striving  to  enter,  which  having 
done,  they  would  have  proved  of  singular 
Inappositeness.  None  the  less  I  danced 
with  those  who  solicited  me  in  due  Form, 
and  gave  Heed  to  little  else  than  the  man- 
ner of  the  Solicitation.  Not  that  there 
was  Lack  of  Goodly  Partners,  but  I  was 
89 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

mindful  of  nothing  beyond  the  Observ- 
ance of  the  Courtesies  of  the  Occasion. 
The  only  Annoyance  of  which  I  was 
sensible  was  the  marked  Attention  of  my 
Cousin  Eustace  Fleming,  who  is  but  re- 
cently come  into  this  our  Part  of  the 
Country,  and  claimeth  Relationship.  He 
is  a  most  excellent  Young  Gentleman,  but 
one  who  is  likely  to  weary  me  with  his 
over  Appreciation  of  my  own  Qualities. 
It  is  but  a  Sign  of  my  Stubbornness  and 
Unregeneracy  of  Heart  that,  in  that  he  is 
most  approved  and  commended  of  my 
Parents,  he  wearieth  me  the  more.  I  was 
fain  to  tell  him,  when  he  asked  me  a  third 
Time  to  join  the  Dance,  that  there  were 
fairer  Maidens  in  the  Hall  who  would  be 
less  loth  to  accord  him  the  Favour,  but  as 
this  would  but  have  drawn  from  him  a 
laboured  compliment  to  my  own  Person,  I 
prudently  refrained." 

It   was   in    the   weariness   of  this   very 
encounter  that,  looking    up,  she    saw  ap- 
proaching her  the  hero  of  her  adventure 
90 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

in  the  coach,  the  impulsive  youth  whose 
former  foolishness  had  won  for  him  the 
semi-disapproval  of  our  commentator.  It 
seems  possible  that  the  gloomy  fancies  of 
shadowy  things  outside  lightened  a  little, 
and  the  war  ceased  to  be  a  background 
only  for  shapes  of  evil. 

"  It  required  not  the  space  of  a  moment 
for  me  to  recognize  him,  though  his  Attire 
had  changed  with  the  Circumstance,  but 
as  my  Father's  Friend,  Mr.  Edwards,  had 
not  deemed  it  of  sufficient  Importance  to 
mention  our  former  Rencontre,  it  now 
seemed  to  me  useless  to  publicly  recall 
that  Incident.  Particularly  as  being  now 
duly  presented  to  me  in  the  Presence  of 
my  Parents,  and  with  due  Vouchers  of 
his  Credit,  our  Acquaintance  could  make 
such  Progress  as  we  should  mutually  con- 
sider profitable." 

Prudent  Mistress  Mary  and  delinquent 
Mr.  Edwards ! 

"  After  the  Cotillion  for  which  he  had 
asked  the  Honour  of  my  Hand,  he  led  me 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

to  my  Seat,  but  by  a  somewhat  indirect 
Route.  Upon  my  remarking  upon  which, 
he  found  Occasion  to  say  that  all  Ways 
were  short  to  him  now  after  traversing 
the  long  and  difficult  one  which  he  had 
followed  that  he  might  gain  Admission  to 
my  Presence.  I,  laughing,  said  that  my 
Presence  were  hardly  worth  such  effort  in 
Gaining,  and  that  it  was  generally  attained 
with  more  Ease,  and  he,  replying  with  a 
Grace  of  Manner  it  were  impossible  not 
to  remark,  said  hastily  that  he  was  well 
aware  that  he  had  found  it  easier  to  enter 
than  he  should  to  again  forsake  it." 

"  And  so  on  with  such  Vanities,"  says 
the  biographer,  "  as  pass  Current  with 
young  Men  and  Maidens  in  their  short- 
sighted Enjoyment  of  the  moment,  and 
with  which  Mary  Twining  was  but  too 
fain  to  dally." 

Yes,  and    so   on,   the  old  story.     For 

there  follow  the  frequent  meetings,  known 

and   not  unapproved  of  by   the  watchful 

parents,  the  half  confessions,  the    vague 

92 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

wonderment,  and  at  last  the  pledge  given 
and  received,  and  Mary  Twining  became 
the  affianced  wife  of  the  handsome  young 
officer.  All  this  we  trace  in  her  journal, 
with  satiric  comments,  now  and  then,  of 
the  Editor ;  but  it  is  all  so  familiar  that  we 
will  not  dwell  on  it,  pretty  as  it  is.  Only 
one  shadow  seems  to  have  fallen  on  the  lov- 
ers, —  that  of  Mr.  Eustace  Fleming,  the 
worthy  cousin,  whose  importunities  in  the 
ball-room  so  tired  the  patience  of  Mistress 
Mary.  The  parentally  favored  candidate 
for  Mary's  hand,  he  finds  it,  evidently, 
too  hard  to  give  it  up  without  a  struggle. 
With  a  lack  of  that  wisdom  unfortunate 
lovers  find  it  so  hard  to  supply,  he  dis- 
turbed their  interviews,  forced  himself  on 
Mary's  society,  yet  with  no  insolence  and 
no  self-betrayal  that  could  lead  to  an  out- 
break. He  is  apparently  a  self-contained, 
and  not  a  bad  man,  who  finds  it  impossible 
to  see  that  he  is  beaten.  Of  this  period 
I  make  one  or  two  extracts  from  Mary's 
journal,  and  then  go  on  to  the  end. 
93 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

"  If  I  once  marvelled  at  the  yielding  of 
those  weak  Women  who  find  it  easier  to 
relinquish  the  Happiness  that  they  find  in 
the  Love  of  Those  bound  to  them  by 
mutual  attraction,  than  to  contest  the 
matter  with  all  Dignity,  Forbearance, 
Firmness  and  Patience,  how  much  the 
more  do  I  marvel  now  at  their  Short- 
sightedness !  Were  he,  whom  I  gladly 
call  my  Betrothed,  to  be  the  Victim  of 
Oppression  or  of  Malice,  it  would  seem 
to  me  but  the  throwing  down  of  the 
Glove  —  a  challenge  to  Battle,  rather 
than  a  demand  for  Submission.  Methinks 
it  were  not  as  a  Suppliant  that  I  should 
stoop  to  pick  it  up.  But  why  talk  of 
fighting,  who  am  a  peaceful  Maid,  who 
would  labour,  were  it  but  Honourable 
towards  her  dear  Country,  to  remove  the 
Sound  of  Battle  far  from  her  Lover.  For 
indeed  he  is  more  ready  to  fight  than  am  I 
to  have  him.  He  would  see  an  Oppor- 
tunity to  strike  a  Blow  in  my  Cause 
where  is  none,  so  anxious  is  he  to  draw 
94 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

his  Sword  in  my  Behalf.  Indeed  so  ex- 
cellent an  Opinion  doth  he  entertain  of 
my  Person  and  my  Mind  and  my  Con- 
ditions, that  he  would  not  be  long  in  find- 
ing one  who  should  most  justly  contest 
the  same.  Heaven  send  that  he  may  hold 
to  the  Opinion  and  forget  the  Wish  to 
make  Proselytes  ! 

"  It  would  seem  that  some  men  were 
created  but  as  a  sort  of  Makeweight,  who, 
without  active  Hindrance,  make  it  more 
difficult  to  row  one's  Boat  up  the  Stream 
of  Life.  Of  such  kind  is  my  Cousin 
Eustace  Fleming.  His  most  mistaken 
Admiration  of  me  (for  that  in  him  is  a 
Mistake  which  in  Another  is  but  a  most 
fitting  and  a  most  reverenced  Creed)  serves 
but  to  make  a  Let  and  Hindrance  where 
my  satisfaction  is  concerned.  I  would 
that  he  could  more  easily  learn  the  Lesson 
I  have  been  at  such  Pains  to  mark  out  for 
him." 

"  It  were  vain,"  is  the  comment  on  the 
last  passage,  "  to  expect  a  Recognition  of 
95 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

sober  worth  in  the  Day  of  Love  and  Am- 
bition. And  Mistress  Twining,  after  the 
manner  of  her  kind,  pays  but  little  Heed 
to  lasting  Affection  before  the  Time  comes 
when  it  shall  be  of  Use  to  Her." 

The  wedding  day  approaches.  Mary 
Twining  does  not  lose  her  independence, 
though,  woman  like,  she  seems  to  enjoy 
losing  herself  in  the  love  lavished  upon 
her.  Here  and  there  are  passages  which 
show  that  in  the  warmth  of  her  romance 
she  thinks  and  judges  and  acts  for  herself, 
as  she  did  in  her  school  days.  Mary 
Twining  will  never  merge  her  individuality 
in  that  of  another,  however  dear  to  her. 

The  entries  grow  briefer  and  more  in- 
frequent, as  the  month  fixed  upon  for  the 
marriage  draws  near.  It  is  to  be  in  June, 
—  two  years  from  that  June  when  she  rode 
down  by  coach,  in  the  care  of  hen  father's 
friend. 

"  The  day  is  fixed  for  the  twenty- 
seventh  of  June,"  is  the  last  entry  but 
two  in  her  journal.  "Two  years  ago, 
96 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

Fate  gave  my  Life  into  his  Hands.  At 
least,  in  giving  it  to  him  a  second  Time, 
Fate  and  I  are  at  one." 

The  next  entry  is  a  month  later.  It  is 
simply  the  statement, — 

"  May  24th.  I  have  done  my  Cousin 
Eustace  wrong."  Then  on  — 

"July  2yth.  And  I  am  but  twenty- 
one  ! " 

And  June  comes  and  goes,  and  there  is 
no  word  on  her  bridal  day,  no  breathings 
of  her  new  happiness  from  her  ready  pen. 
Is  the  book  closed  ?  Yes,  but  her  biog- 
rapher has  a  word  to  say. 

"  On  the  twenty-seventh  of  June,  Mary 
A.  Twining  became  the  wife  of  her  Cousin 
Eustace  Fleming.  Their  Betrothal  was 
but  a  short  one,  but  in  the  eyes  of  her 
judicious  Parents,  there  was  no  unseemly 
Haste.  ,  It  had  long  been  a  cherished  wish 
of  their  Hearts,  and  Eustace  Fleming  was 
a  young  man  of  Promise  and  of  rare  Dis- 
cretion." 

There  it  ends.  The  record  of  Mary 
7  97 


Memoir  of  Mary  Twining 

Twining  is  finished.  With  Mary  Fleming 
he  has  nothing  to  do.  But  where  is  the 
girl  of  ripened  understanding,  of  freedom 
of  thought,  of  directness  of  purpose  ? 
We  do  not  know,  for  our  biographer  does 
not  tell  us.  Was  there  a  tragedy,  and 
were  the  details  too  heart-breaking  for 
even  the  stoical  Editor  to  maintain  his 
critical  attitude  ? 

Where  is  the  gallant  cavalier  with  his 
picturesque  devotion,  and  his  vain  toys  of 
pretty  speech  and  gesture  and  his  fiery 
and  over-weening  love  and  admiration  for 
Mistress  Mary  Twining  ?  He  seemed  to 
me  a  brave  and  loyal  sort  of  young  fellow 
enough.  I  cannot  tell.  Put  the  quaint 
old  book  back  on  the  shelf,  and  let  her 
romance  rest  again.  But  notwithstanding 
her  husband  of  such  promise  and  rare 
discretion,  I  cannot  help  sighing,  "  Poor 
Mary  Twining !  " 

Fate  and  she  had  a  difference,  after  all. 
And  she  was  but  twenty-one ! 


98 


A    Postlude 

IT  was  almost  time  for  the  train  to  leave 
the  station,  and  the  seats  were  filling 
rapidly.  The  Irishwoman,  with  four  chil- 
dren so  near  of  a  size  that  they  seemed  to 
be  distinguished  only  by  the  variety  of  eat- 
able each  one  was  consuming,  had  entered 
the  car  and  deposited  her  large  newspaper 
bundle  just  inside  the  door,  and  driven  her 
flock  all  into  the  little  end  seat,  where  they 
were  stowed  uncomfortably,  one  on  top 
of  another,  gazing  stolidly  about  the  car. 
The  young  girl  from  the  country  who  had 
been  spending  Sunday  in  town,  and  who 
was,  consequently,  somewhat  overdressed 
for  Monday  morning,  was  wandering  ele- 
gantly up  and  down  the  aisle,  losing  each 
possible  place  for  a  prospective  better  one, 
which  became  impossible  before  she  reached 
99 


A  Postlude 

it.  The  woman  with  a  bag  too  large  for 
her  to  carry,  rested  it  on  the  arm  of  an  oc- 
cupied seat  while  she  gazed  vaguely  about, 
indifferent  to  the  fact  that  a  crowd  of 
impatient  travellers  of  more  concrete  in- 
tentions were  being  delayed  by  her  indeci- 
sion. Meanwhile,  among  these  disturbers 
of  travel  the  man  with  a  large  bag  passed 
rapidly  along,  found  a  place,  put  the  bag  in 
the  rack,  seated  himself,  and  took  out  his 
newspaper.  There  is  something  in  a  man's 
management  of  a  large  travelling-bag  in  a 
railway  train  that  leads  the  most  unwilling 
to  grudgingly  yield  him  a  certain  superi- 
ority of  sex. 

An  exchange  of  good-bys,  low-voiced 
but  with  a  decided  note  of  hilarity,  took 
place  at  the  door,  and  two  women  entered 
the  car,  one  looking  back  and  nodding  a 
final  smiling  farewell  before  she  gave  her 
mind  to  the  matter  in  hand.  They  were 
attractive  women,  of  late  middle  age,  per- 
haps, not  yet  to  be  called  old.  One  was 
large,  with  fine  curves,  gray  bands  of  hair 
100 


A  Postlude 

under  her  autumnal  bonnet,  and  a  dignity 
of  bearing  which  suited  her  ample  figure 
and  melodious,  rather  deep  voice ;  the  other 
was  paler,  more  fragile,  her  light  hair  only 
streaked  with  gray,  and  her  blue  eyes  still 
shaded  with  a  half-wistful  uncertainty  of 
what  might  be  before  her,  which  the  years 
had  not  been  able  to  turn  altogether  into 
self-confidence. 

"  You  go  on,  Lucy,"  said  the  former,  in 
her  full,  decided  tones,  pausing  at  the  first 
vacant  seat,  "  and  see  if  there  's  a  place  for 
us  to  sit  together  farther  down.  I  '11  hold 
this  for  one  of  us.  You  take  up  less  room 
than  I  do,  you  know,  and  it 's  easier  for 
you  to  slip  about ; "  and  she  laughed  a  little. 
There  was  a  suggestion  of  laughter  in  the 
eyes  and  around  the  mouth  of  each  of  them. 
It  indicated  a  subdued  exhilaration  unusual 
in  the  setting  forth  of  women  of  their  years 
and  dignity.  Lucy  hesitated  a  moment, 
and  then  moved  on  somewhat  timidly;  but 
she  had  taken  only  a  step  when  the  man 
near  whom  they  stood  rose,  and,  lifting  his 
101 


A  Postlude 

hat,  said :  "  Allow  me,  madam,  to  give 
you  this  seat  for  yourself  and  your  friend. 
I  can  easily  find  another." 

"Thank  you;  you  are  very  good," 
replied  the  larger  of  the  two  women,  her 
kindly  gray  eyes  meeting  his  with  an  ex- 
pression that  led  him  to  pause  and  put  their 
umbrellas  in  the  rack  and  depart,  wonder- 
ing what  it  was  about  some  women  that 
made  a  man  always  glad  to  do  anything 
for  them,  —  and  it  did  n't  make  any  dif- 
ference how  old  they  were,  either. 

"  How  nice  people  are  !  "  said  the  one 
who  had  already  spoken  as  they  settled 
themselves.  "  That  man,  now  —  there 
Was  n't  any  need  of  his  doing  that." 

"  He  seemed  to  really  want  to,"  rejoined 
Lucy.  "  People  always  like  to  do  things 
for  you,  Mary  Leonard,  I  believe,"  she 
added,  looking  at  her  companion  with 
affectionate  admiration. 

"  I  like  to  hear  you  talk,"  returned 
Mary  Leonard,  laughing.  "  If  there  ever 
was  anybody  that  just  went  through  the 

IO2 


A  Postlude 

world  having  people  do  things  for  'em, 
it 's  you,  Lucy  Eastman,  and  you  know 
it." 

"  Oh,  but  I  know  so  few  people,"  said 
the  other,  hastily.  "  I  'm  not  ungrateful 
—  I  'm  sure  I  've  no  call  to  be ;  but  I  know 
so  few  people,  and  they  've  known  me  all 
my  life ;  it 's  not  like  strangers." 

*'  That  has  n't  anything  to  do  with  it," 
affirmed  Mary  Leonard,  stoutly  ;  "  if  there 
were  more,  it  would  be  the  same  way. 
But  I  will  say,"  she  went  on, "  that  I  never 
could  see  why  a  woman  travelling  alone 
should  ever  have  any  trouble — officials 
and  everybody  are  so  polite  about  telling 
you  the  same  thing  over.  I  don't  know 
why  it  is,  but  I  always  seem  to  expect  the 
next  one  I  ask  to  tell  me  something  differ- 
ent about  a  train ;  and  then  everybody  you 
meet  seems  just  as  pleasant  as  can  be." 

"Yes,"  assented  Lucy  Eastman,  "like 
that  baggageman.  Did  you  notice  how 
polite  the  baggageman  was  ?  " 

"  Notice  it !  Why,  of  course  I  did. 
103 


A  Postlude 

And  our  trunks  were  late,  and  it  was  my 
fault,  and  so  I  told  him,  and  he  just  hur- 
ried to  pull  them  around  and  check  them, 
and  I  was  so  confused,  you  know,  that  I 
made  him  check  the  wrong  ones  twice." 

"Well,  they  were  just  like  ours,"  said 
Lucy  Eastman,  sympathetically. 

"  Well,  they  were,  were  n't  they?  But 
of  course  I  ought  to  have  known.  And 
he  never  swore  at  all.  I  was  dreadfully 
afraid  he  'd  swear,  Lucy." 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  exclaimed  Lucy  Eastman, 
distressed,  "  what  would  you  have  done  if 
he  'd  sworn  ?  " 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  asserted 
Mary  Leonard,  with  conviction,  "  but 
fortunately  he  did  n't." 

"  He  got  very  warm,"  said  Lucy,  remi- 
niscently.  "  I  saw  him  wiping  his  brow 
as  we  came  away." 

"  I  don't  blame   him   the  least   in    the 

world.      I    think    he    was    a    wonderfully 

nice  baggageman,  for  men  of  that    class 

are  so  apt  to  swear  when  they  get  very 

104 


A  Postlude 

warm,  —  at  least,  so  I  've  heard.  And  did 
you  hear  —  " 

"Tickets,  ma'am,"  observed  the  con- 
ductor. 

"  There,  I  did  n't  mean  to  keep  you 
waiting  a  minute ; "  and  Mary  Leonard 
opened  her  pocketbook,  "  but  I  forgot 
all  about  the  tickets.  Oh,  Lucy,  I  gave 
you  the  tickets,  and  I  took  the  checks." 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  Lucy,  opening 
her  pocketbook. 

"  I  '11  put  them  in  the  seat  for  you, 
ladies,  like  this,"  said  the  conductor,  smil- 
ing, "  and  then  you  won't  have  any  more 
trouble." 

"Oh,  yes,  thank  you,"  said  Lucy 
Eastman. 

"  What  a  nice  conductor  !  "  observed 
Mary  Leonard. 

"Did  I  hear  what,  Mary  ? —  you  were 
telling  me  something." 

"  Oh,  about  the  baggageman.  I  heard 
him  say  to  his  assistant,  '  Don't  you  ever 
git  mad  with  women,  Bobby.  It  ain't  no 
105 


A  Postlude 

use.  If  it  was  always  the  same  woman 
and  the  same  trunk,  perhaps  you  could 
learn  her  sometime;  but  it  ain't,  and 
you  've  got  to  take  'em  just  as  they  come, 
and  get  rid  of  'em  the  best  way  you  can 
—  they  don't  bear  instruction.'  " 

Mary  Leonard  and  Lucy  Eastman  threw 
back  their  heads  and  laughed ;  it  was 
genuine,  low,  fresh  laughter,  and  a  good 
thing  to  hear.  After  that  there  was  silence 
for  a  few  moments  as  the  train  sped  on  its 
way. 

"  I  declare,"  said  Mary  Leonard,  at 
last,  "  I  don't  know  when  I  've  been  in 
the  cars  before." 

"  I  was  just  thinking  I  have  n't  been  in 
the  cars  since  Sister  Eliza  died,  and  we  all 
went  to  the  funeral,"  said  Lucy  Eastman. 

"Why,  that's  —  let  me  see  —  eight 
years  ago,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Eight  and  a  half." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you'll  have  a  pleas- 
anter  trip  to  look  back  on  after  this." 

"  So  am  I ;  and  I  am  enjoying  this  — 
106 


A  Postlude 

every  minute  of  it.  Only  there 's  so 
much  to  see.  Just  look  at  the  people 
looking  out  of  the  windows  of  that  manu- 
factory !  Should  n't  you  think  they  'd 
roast  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  must  be  hotter  than  a 
fritter  such  a  day  as  this." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  Jve  been  to 
Englefield,  Mary  ?  "  asked  Lucy  Eastman, 
after  another  pause. 

"  Why,  that 's  what  I  meant  to  tell 
you.  Do  you  know,  after  I  saw  you,  and 
we  decided  to  go  there  for  our  holiday,  I 
began  to  think  it  over,  and  I  have  n't  been 
there  since  we  went  together  the  last 
time." 

"  Why,  Mary  Leonard  !  I  had  an  idea 
you  'd  been  there  time  and  again,  though 
you  said  you  had  n't  seen  the  old  place  for 
a  long  time." 

"  Well,  I  was  surprised  myself  when  I 

realized  it.      But  the  next  year  my  cousins 

all  moved  away,  and   I  've  thought  of  it 

over  and  over,  but  I  have  n't  been.     I  dare 

107 


A  Postlude 

say  if  we  'd  lived  in  the  same  town  we  'd 
have  gone  together  before  this,  but  we 
have  n't,  and  there  it  is." 

"  That 's  thirty-five  years  ago,  Mary," 
said  Lucy  Eastman,  thoughtfully. 

41  Thirty-five  years !  I  declare,  it  still 
makes  me  jump  to  hear  about  thirty-five 
years — just  as  if  I  hadn't  known  all 
about  'em  !  "  and  Mary  Leonard  laughed 
her  comfortable  laugh  again.  "  You  don't 
say  it 's  thirty-five  years,  Lucy  !  I  guess 
you  're  right,  though." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  the 
laugh  died  away  into  a  little  sigh. 

"  We  did  'nt  think  then  —  we  did  n't 
really  think  —  we  'd  ever  be  talking  about 
what  appened  thirty-five  years  ago,  did 
we,  Lucy  ?  We  did  n't  think  we  'd 
have  interest  enough  to  care." 

"  No,"  said  Lucy,  soberly,  "  we  did  n't." 

"  And  I  care  just  as  much  as  I  ever  did 
about  things,"  went  on  the  other,  thought- 
fully, "  only  there  seem  more  doors  for 
satisfaction  to  come  in  at  nowadays.  It 
1 08 


A  Postlude 

is  n't  quite  the  same  sort  of  satisfaction, 
perhaps,  that  it  used  to  be,  not  so  pressed 
down  and  running  over,  but  there's  more 
of  it,  after  all,  and  it  does  n't  slip  out  so 
easily." 

"  No,  the  bottom  of  things  does  n't  fall 
out  at  once,  as  it  used  to,  and  leave  nothing 
in  our  empty  hands." 

"  That  sounds  almost  sad.  Don't  you 
be  melancholy,  Lucy  Eastman." 

"  I  'm  not,  Mary  —  I  'm  not  a  bit.  I  'm 
only  remembering  that  I  used  to  be." 

"  We  used  to  go  to  the  well  with  a  sieve 
instead  of  a  pitcher ;  that 's  really  the  dif- 
ference," said  Mary  Leonard.  "  We  've 
learned  not  to  be  wasteful,  that 's  all." 

"  What  fun  we  used  to  have,"  said 
Lucy,  her  eyes  shining,  "  visiting  your 
cousins !  " 

"  It  was  fun  !  "  said  the  other.  "  Do 
you  remember  the  husking  party  at  the 
Kendals'  barn?" 

"Of  course  I  do,  and  the  red  ears  that 
that  Chickering  girl  was  always  finding  ! 
109 


A  Postlude 

I  think  she  picked  them  out  on  purpose,  so 
that  Tom  Endover  would  kiss  her.  It  was 
just  like  those  Chickerings  !  "  There  was 
a  gentle  venom  in  Lucy  Eastman's  tones 
that  made  Mary  Leonard  laugh  till  the 
tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  Minnie  Chickering  was  n't  the  only 
girl  that  Tom  Endover  kissed,  if  I  remem- 
ber right,"  she  said,  with  covert  intention. 

"  Well,  he  put  the  red  ear  into  my 
hands  himself,  and  I  just  husked  it  without 
thinking  anything  about  it,"  retorted  Lucy 
Eastman,  with  spirit. 

"  Of  course  you  did,  of  course  you  did," 
asseverated  Mary  Leonard,  whereupon  the 
other  laughed  too,  but  with  reservation. 

"  And  do  you  remember  old  Miss 
Pinsett's,  where  we  used  to  go  to  act 
charades  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  in  the  old  white  house  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill,  with  a  cupola.  She 
seemed  so  old;  I  wonder  how  old  she 
was  ?  " 

41  Perhaps  we  should  n't  think  her  so  old 
110 


A  Postlude 

to-day.  People  used  to  wear  caps  earlier 
then  than  they  do  now.  I  think  when  they 
were  disappointed  in  love  they  put  on 
caps  !  Miss  Pinsett  had  been  disappointed 
in  love,  so  they  said." 

"  They  will  have  old  maids  disappointed 
in  love,"  said  Lucy,  with  some  asperity. 
"  They  will  have  me  —  some  people  — 
and  I  never  was." 

"  I  know  you  were  n't.  But  I  don't 
think  it 's  as  usual  as  it  was  to  say  that 
about  old  maids.  It 's  more  the  fashion 
now  to  be  disappointed  in  marriage." 

There  had  been  several  stops  at  the 
stations  along  the  road.  The  day  was 
wearing  on.  Suddenly  Lucy  Eastman 
turned  to  her  companion. 

11  Mary,"  she  said,  "  let 's  play  we  were 
girls  again,  and  going  to  Englefield  just  as 
we  used  to  go  —  thirty-five  years  ago. 
Let 's  pretend  that  we  're  going  to  do  the 
same  things  and  see  the  same  people  and 
have  the  same  fun.  We  're  off  by  our- 
selves, just  you  and  I,  and  why  should  n't 
in 


A  Postlude 

we  ?     We  're    the    same  girls,  after  all," 
and  she  smiled  apologetically. 

"  Of  course  we  are.  We  '11  do  it," 
said  Mary  Leonard,  decidedly ;  "  let 's 
pretend." 

But,  having  made  the  agreement,  it  was 
not  so  easy  to  begin.  The  stream  of 
reminiscence  had  been  checked,  and  a 
chasm  of  thirty-five  years  is  not  instantly 
bridged,  even  in  thought. 

"  I  hope  they  won't  meet  us  at  the  sta- 
tion," said  Mary  Leonard,  after  a  while, 
in  a  matter-of-fact  voice.  "  We  know 
the  way  so  well  there  is  no  need  of  it." 

"  I  hope  not.  I  feel  just  like  walking 
up  myself,"  answered  Lucy.  "  We  can 
send  our  trunks  by  the  man  that  comes 
from  the  hotel,  just  as  usual,  and  it  '11  be 
cool  walking  toward  evening." 

"  I  'm  glad  we  put  off  coming  till  the 
fall.  The  country 's  beautiful,  and  there 
is  n't  so  much  dust  in  case  we "  —  she 
hesitated  a  moment  —  "  in  case  we  go  on 
a  picnic." 

112 


A  Postlude 

"  Yes,"  replied  Lucy,  readily  j  "  to  the 
old  fort.  I  hope  we  '11  have  a  picnic  to 
the  old  fort.  I  guess  all  the  girls  will 
like  to  go.  It 's  just  the  time  to  take  that 
drive  over  the  hill." 

"  If  we  go,"  said  Mary  Leonard,  slowly 
and  impressively,  "  you  '11  have  to  drive 
with  Samuel  Hatt." 

"  Oh,  I  went  with  him  last  time," 
broke  in  Lucy,  apprehensively.  "  It 's 
your  turn." 

"  But  you  know  I  just  won't,"  said 
Mary  Leonard,  her  eyes  sparkling,  and  the 
dimples  that,  like  Miss  Jessie  Brown,  she 
had  not  left  off,  appearing  and  disappear- 
ing. "  And  somebody  has  to  go  with  him." 

"  Perhaps  they  won't  ask  him." 

"  Oh,  but  they  will.  They  always  do, 
on  account  of  his  horses.  It  would  n't  be 
a  picnic  without  Samuel  Hatt." 

Just  then  the  train  drew  up  at  a  small 
station.  Lucy  Eastman  started  as  she 
read  the  name  of  the  place  as  it  passed 
before  her  eyes. 

8  113 


A  Postlude 

"  Mary,"  said  she,  "  this  is  where  Mr. 
Hatt  always  used  to  get  on  the  train. 
There  are  the  Hatt  Mills,  and  he  goes  up 
and  down  every  day,  —  don't  you  remem- 
ber ?  And  how  we  were  —  we  are  — 
always  afraid  we  '11  meet  him  on  the 
train." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mary  Leonard,  lean- 
ing forward  and  scanning  the  platform 
with  its  row  of  idlers  and  its  few  travel- 
'ers.  "  Well,  he  is  n't  here  now.  We 
are  going  to  escape  him  this  time.  But 
my  heart  was  in  my  mouth  !  I  don't 
want  Samuel  Hatt  to  be  the  first  Engle- 
field  person  we  meet." 

They  looked  up  with  careless  curiosity 
at  the  people  who  entered  the  train. 
There  was  a  little  girl  with  a  bunch  of 
common  garden  flowers  following  close 
behind  a  tired-looking  woman,  who  had 
been,  obviously,  "  spending  the  day ;  "  a 
florid  old  gentleman  with  gold  spectacles, 
who  revealed  a  bald  head  as  he  removed 
his  hat  and  used  it  for  a  fan,  —  they  had 
114 


A  Postlude 

seen  him  hurrying  to  the  platform  just 
before  the  train  moved  out ;  a  commer- 
cial traveller,  and  a  schoolboy. 

"  No,"  said  Mary  Leonard,  "  he  isn't 
here  this  time." 

The  florid  old  gentleman  took  a  seat  in 
front  of  them  and  continued  to  fan  himself. 
The  conductor  came  through  the  car. 

"  Warm  spell  we  're  having  for  Octo- 
ber, Mr.  Hatt,"  he  said,  as  he  punched 
the  commutation-ticket  that  was  offered 
him. 

Mary  Leonard  and  Lucy  Eastman  gazed 
spellbound  at  the  back  of  Mr.  Hatt's  bald 
head.  They  were  too  amazed  to  look 
away  from  it  at  each  other. 

"  It  —  it  must  be  his  father,"  gasped 
Lucy  Eastman.  "He  looks  —  a  little  — 
like  him." 

"  Then  it 's  his  father  come  back  !  " 
returned  Mary  in  an  impatient  whisper. 
"  His  father  died  before  we  ever  went  to 
Englefield ;  and,  don't  you  remember,  he 
was  always  fanning  himself?" 
"5 


A  Postlude 

Their  fascinated  gaze  left  the  shiny 
pink  surface  of  Samuel  Hatt's  head,  and 
their  eyes  met. 

"  I  hope  he  won't  see  us,"  giggled 
Lucy. 

"  I  hope  not.  Let 's  look  the  other 
way." 

In  a  few  minutes  Mr.  Hatt  rose  slowly 
and  portentously,  and,  turning,  made  a 
solemn  but  wavering  way  down  the  car  to 
greet  a  man  who  sat  just  across  the  aisle 
from  Mary  Leonard.  Both  the  women 
avoided  his  eyes,  blushing  a  little  and  with 
the  fear  of  untimely  mirth  about  their  lips. 

As  he  talked  with  their  neighbor,  how- 
ever, they  ventured  to  look  at  him,  and  as 
he  turned  to  go  back  his  slow,  deliberate 
glance  fell  upon  them,  rested  a  moment, 
and,  without  a  flicker  of  recognition, 
passed  on,  and  he  resumed  his  place. 

There  was  almost  a  shadow  in  the 
eyes  that  met  again,  as  the  women  turned 
towards  one  another. 

"I  —  I  know  it 's  funny,"  said  Lucy,  a 
116 


A  Postlude 

little  tremulously,  "  but  I  don 't  quite  like 
it  that  we  look  to  him  just  as  he  does  to  us." 

"  We  have  hair  on  our  heads,"  said 
Mary  Leonard.  "  But,"  she  added,  less 
aggressively,  "  we  need  n't  have  worried 
about  his  speaking  to  us." 

u  Englefield,"  shouted  the  brakeman, 
and  the  train  rumbled  into  a  covered  station. 
Mary  Leonard  started  to  her  feet,  and  then 
paused  and  looked  down  at  her  companion. 
This  Engkfield  !  This  the  quiet  little  place 
where  the  man  from  the  hotel  consented  to 
look  after  their  trunks  while  their  cousins 
drove  them  up  in  the  wagon  —  this  noisy 
station  with  two  or  three  hotel  stages  and 
shouting  drivers  of  public  carriages  ! 

"Lucy,"  said  she,  sitting  down  again 
in  momentary  despair,  "  we  've  gone  back 
thirty-five  years,  but  we  forgot  to  take 
Englefield  with  us  !  " 

It  did  not  take  long,  however,  to  adapt 
themselves  to  the  new  conditions.  They 
arranged  to  stay  at  the  inn  that  was  far- 
thest from  the  centre  of  things,  and  the 
117 


A  Postlude 

drive  out  restored  some  of  the  former  look 
of  the  place.  It  was  near  sunset ;  the 
road  looked  pink  before  them  as  they  left 
the  city.  The  boys  had  set  fire  to  little 
piles  of  early  fallen  leaves  along  the  sides 
of  the  streets,  and  a  faint,  pungent  smoke 
hung  about  and  melted  into  the  twilight, 
and  the  flame  leaped  forth  vividly  now 
and  then  from  the  dusky  heaps.  As  they 
left  the  paved  city  for  the  old  inn  which 
modern  travel  and  enterprise  had  left  on 
the  outskirts,  the  sky  showed  lavender 
through  a  mistiness  that  was  hardly  palpa- 
ble enough  for  haze.  The  browns  and 
reds  of  the  patches  of  woods  in  the  near 
distance  seemed  the  paler,  steadier  repro- 
duction of  the  flames  behind  them.  Low  on 
the  horizon  the  clouds  lay  in  purple  waves, 
deepening  and  darkening  into  brown. 

"  Mary,"  said  Lucy  Eastman,  in  a  low 
tone,  laying  her  hand  on  her  companion's 
arm,  "  it 's  just  the  way  it  looked  when 
we  came  the  first  time  of  all;  do  you 
remember  ?  " 

118 


A  Postlude 

"  Remember  ?  It 's  as  if  it  were  yes- 
terday !  Oh,  Lucy,  I  don't  know  about 
a  new  heaven,  but  I  'm  glad,  I  'm  glad  it 
is  n't  a  '  new  earth '  quite  yet !  "  There 
was  a  mistiness  in  the  eyes  of  the  women 
that  none  of  the  changes  they  had  marked 
had  brought  there.  They  were  moved  by 
the  sudden  sweet  recognition  that  seemed 
sadder  than  any  change. 

The  next  morning  they  left  the  house 
early,  that  they  might  have  long  hours  in 
which  to  hunt  up  old  haunts  and  renew 
former  associations.  Again  the  familiar 
look  of  things  departed  as  they  wandered 
about  the  wider,  gayer  streets.  The  house 
in  which  Mary  Leonard's  cousins  had 
lived  had  been  long  in  other  hands,  and 
the  occupants  had  cut  down  the  finest  of 
the  old  trees  to  make  room  for  an  addi- 
tion, and  a  woman  whose  face  seemed 
provokingly  foreign  to  the  scene  came  out 
with  the  air  of  a  proprietor  and  entered 
her  carriage  as  they  passed. 

At  another  place  which  they  used  to 
119 


A  Postlude 

visit  on  summer  afternoons,  and  which  had 
been  approached  by  a  little  lane,  making 
it  seem  isolated  and  distant,  the  beautiful 
turf  had  been  removed  to  prepare  a  bald 
and  barren  tennis  court,  and  they  reached 
it  by  an  electric  car.  Even  the  little 
candy-shop  had  become  a  hardware  store. 

"  Of  course,  when  one  thinks  of  the 
Gibraltars  and  Jackson  balls,  it  does  not 
seem  such  a  revolution,"  said  Mary 
Leonard ;  but  she  spoke  forlornly,  and 
did  not  care  much  for  her  own  joke.  It 
looked  almost  as  if  their  holiday  was  to  be 
turned  into  a  day  of  mourning ;  there  was 
depression  in  the  air  of  the  busy,  bustling 
active  streets,  through  which  the  gray- 
haired  women  wandered,  handsome,  alert, 
attentive,  but  haunted  by  the  sense  of 
familiarity  that  made  things  unfamiliar 
and  the  knowledge  of  every  turn  and 
direction  that  yet  was  not  knowledge,  but 
ignorance. 

"  Look  here,  Lucy  Eastman,"  said 
Mary  Leonard  at  last,  stopping  decisively 

I2O 


A  Postlude 

in  front  of  what  used  to  be  the  Baptist 
Church,  but  which  was  now  a  business 
block  and  a  drug-store  where  you  could 
get  peach  phosphate,  u  we  can't  stand  this 
any  longer.  Let 's  get  into  a  carriage 
right  away  and  go  to  the  old  fort;  that 
can't  have  changed  much  ;  it  used  to  be 
dismantled,  and  I  don't  believe  they  've 
had  time,  with  all  they  've  done  here,  to 
—  to  mantle  it  again." 

They  moved  towards  a  cab-stand  —  of 
course  it  was  an  added  grievance  that 
there  was  a  cab-stand  —  but  the  wisdom 
of  the  prudent  is  to  understand  his  way. , 

"  Mary,"  said  Lucy  Eastman,  detaining 
her,  "wait  a  minute.  Do  you  think  we 
might  —  it 's  a  lovely  day  —  and  —  there 's 
a  grocer  right  there  —  and  dinner  is  late 
at  the  hotel  "  —  She  checked  her  in- 
coherence and  looked  wistfully  at  Mary 
Leonard. 

"  Lucy,  I  think  we  might  do  anything, 
if  you  don't  lose  your  mind  first.  What 
is  it,  for  pity's  sake,  that  you  want  to  do  ?  " 
121 


A  Postlude 

"  Take  our  luncheon  ;  we  always  used 
to,  you  know.  And  we  can  have  a  hot 
dinner  at  the  hotel  when  we  come  back." 

Without  replying,  Mary  Leonard  led 
the  way  to  the  grocer's,  and  they  bought 
lavish  supplies  there  and  at  the  bakery 
opposite.  Then  they  called  the  cab. 

"  Do  you  remember,  Lucy,  we  used  to 
have  to  think  twice  about  calling  a  cab, 
when  we  used  to  travel  together,  on  ac- 
count of  the  expense,"  said  Mary  Leonard, 
as  they  waited  for  it  to  draw  up  at  the 
curbstone. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Lucy  ;  "  we  don't 
have  to  now."  And  then  they  both 
sighed  a  little. 

But  their  smiles  returned  as  they  drove 
into  the  enclosure  of  the  old  fort.  There 
they  lay  in  the  peaceful  sun  — -  the  gray 
stones,  the  few  cannon-balls,  sunk  in  the 
caressing  grass,  with  here  and  there  a  rusty 
gun,  like  a  once  grim,  sharp-tongued, 
cruel  man  who  has  fallen  somehow  into 
an  amiable  senility. 

122 


A  Postlude 

"  I  read  an  article  in  one  of  the  maga- 
zines about  our  coast  defences,"  said  Lucy 
Eastman,  breathlessly ;  "  how  they  ought 
to  be  strengthened  and  repaired  and  all, 
and  I  was  quite  excited  about  it  and 
wanted  to  give  a  little  money  towards  it, 
but  I  would  n't  for  anything  now,  enemy 
or  no  enemy." 

"Nor  I,  either,"  said  Mary  Leonard, 
after  she  had  dismissed  the  driver  with 
orders  to  call  for  them  later  in  the  day. 
They  walked  on  over  the  crisp  dry  grass, 
and  seated  themselves  on  a  bit  of  the 
fallen  masonry.  The  reaches  of  the 
placid  river  lay  before  them,  and  the  hum 
of  the  alert  cricket  was  in  their  ears. 
Now  and  then  a  bird  flew  surreptitiously 
from  one  bush  to  another,  with  the  stealthy, 
swift  motion  of  flight  in  autumn,  so  differ- 
ent from  the  heedless,  fluttering,  hither- 
and-yon  vagaries  of  the  spring  and  early 
summer.  The  time  for  frivolity  is  over ; 
the  flashes  of  wings  have  a  purpose  nowj 
the  possibility  of  cold  is  in  the  air, 
123 


A  Postlude 

and  what  is  to  be  done  must  be  done 
quickly. 

11  We  almost  always  used  to  come  in 
summer,"  said  Lucy  Eastman,  "but  I 
think  it 's  every  bit  as  pretty  in  the  fall." 

"  So  do  I,"  assented  Mary  Leonard,  as 
she  looked  down  into  a  hollow  where  the 
purple  asters  grew  so  thick  that  in  the 
half-dusk  of  the  shadow  they  looked  like 
magnified  snowflakes  powdered  thickly  on 
the  sward.  "  And  it  has  n't  changed  an 
atom,"  she  went  on,  as  her  eyes  roamed 
over  the  unevenness  of  this  combination 
of  man's  and  nature's  handiwork.  "  It 's 
just  as  quiet  and  disorderly  and  upset  and 
peaceful  as  it  was  then." 

"  Yes,  look  up  there ;  "  and  Lucy  East- 
man pointed  to  the  higher  ramparts,  on 
the  edge  of  which  the  long  grass  wavered 
in  the  wind  with  the  glancing  uncertainty 
of  a  conflagration.  "  The  last  time  I  was 
here  I  remember  saying  that  that  looked 
like  a  fire." 

After  they  had  eaten  their  luncheon, 
124 


A  Postlude 

which  brought  with  it  echoes  of  the 
laughter  which  had  accompanied  the  pic- 
nic supper  eaten  in  that  very  corner  years 
ago,  they  seated  themselves  in  a  sheltered 
spot  to  wait.  It  really  seemed  as  if  the 
old  gray  walls  retained  some  of  the  spirit 
of  those  earlier  days,  so  gentle,  so  mirth- 
inspiring  was  the  sunshine  that  warmed 
them. 

"  I  'm  so  glad  we  came,"  said  Mary, — 
they  had  both  said  it  before,  —  as  the  sunny 
peace  penetrated  their  very  souls. 

Four  o'clock  brought  the  cab,  and  they 
drove  down  the  long  hills,  looking  back 
often  for  a  final  glimpse  of  the  waving 
grass  and  the  gray  stones.  As  they  turned 
a  sharp  corner  and  lost  sight  of  the  old 
fort,  Mary  Leonard  glanced  furtively  at 
her  companion.  Her  own  eyes  for  the 
second  time  that  day  were  not  quite  clear, 
and  she  was  not  sorry  to  detect  an  added 
wistfulness  in  Lucy  Eastman's  gaze. 

"  Lucy,"  said  she,  and  her  voice  shook 
a  little,  "  I  'm  tired." 
125 


A  Postlude 

"  So  am  I,"  murmured  Lucy. 

"And  I  don't  ever  remember  to  have 
been  tired  after  a  picnic  at  the  old  fort 
before." 

"  No  more  do  I,"  said  Lucy ;  and  it 
was  a  moment  before  their  sadness,  as 
usual,  trembled  into  laughter. 

"  Lucy  Eastman,"  said  Mary  Leonard, 
suddenly,  "  this  is  the  street  that  old  Miss 
Pinsett  used  to  live  on  —  lives  on,  I  mean. 
What  do  you  say  ?  Shall  we  stop  and  see 
Miss  Pinsett  ?  "  The  dimples  had  come 
back  again,  and  her  eyes  danced. 

Lucy  caught  her  breath. 

"  Oh,  Mary,  if  only  she  — "  her  sen- 
tence was  left  unfinished. 

"  I  '11  find  out,"  said  Mary  Leonard,  and 
put  her  head  out  of  the  window.  "  Driver," 
she  called  out,  "  stop  at  Miss  Pinsett's." 

The  driver  nodded  and  drove  on,  and 
she  sank  back  pleased  with  her  own 
temerity. 

The  cab  stopped  in  front  of  the  same 
square  white  house,  with  the  cupola,  and 
126 


A  Postlude 

the  same  great  trees  in  the  front  yard. 
Mary  Leonard  and  Lucy  Eastman  clasped 
each  other's  hands  in  silent  delight  as  they 
walked  up  the  box-bordered  path. 

"  Tell  Miss  Pinsett  that  Lucy  Eastman 
and  —  and  Mary  Greenleaf  have  come  to 
see  her,"  they  said  to  the  elderly  respect- 
able maid.  Then  they  went  into  the  dim 
shaded  parlor  and  waited.  There  were 
the  old  piano  and  the  Japanese  vases,  and 
the  picture  of  Washington  which  they  had 
always  laughed  at  because  he  looked  as  if 
he  were  on  stilts  and  could  step  right 
across  the  Delaware,  and  they  could  hear 
their  hearts  beat,  for  there  was  a  rustle 
outside  the  door — old  Miss  Pinsett's 
gowns  always  rustled  —  and  it  opened. 

"  Why,  girls !  "  exclaimed  old  Miss 
Pinsett  as  she  glided  into  the  room. 

Mary  Leonard  and  Lucy  Eastman  de- 
clared, then  and  afterward,  that  she  was  n't 
a  day  older  than  when  they  said  good-by 
to  her  thirty-five  years  ago.  She  wore 
the  same  gray  curls  and  the  same  kind 
127 


A  Postlude 

of  cap.  Also,  they  both  declared  that  this 
was  the  climax,  and  that  they  should  have 
wept  aloud  if  it  had  not  been  so  evident  that 
to  Miss  Pinsett  there  was  nothing  in  the 
meeting  but  happiness  and  good  fortune, 
so  they  did  not. 

"Why,  girls,"  said  old  Miss  Pinsett 
again,  clasping  both  their  hands,  "  how 
glad  I  am  to  see  you,  and  how  well  you 
are  both  looking  !  " 

Then  she  insisted  on  their  laying  off 
their  things,  and  they  laid  them  off  because 
they  always  had  when  she  asked  them. 

"  You  've  grown  stout,  Mary  Green- 
leaf,"  said  old  Miss  Pinsett. 

"I  know  I  have,"  she  answered,  "and 
I  'm  not  Mary  Greenleaf,  though  I  sent 
that  name  up  to  you  —  I  'm  Mary  Leon- 
ard." 

"  I  wondered  if  neither  of  you  were 
married." 

"  I  'm    a    widow,    Miss    Pinsett,"    said 
Mary    Leonard,    soberly.     My     husband 
only  lived  three  years." 
128 


A  Postlude 

"  Poor  girl,  poor  girl !  "  said  Miss  Pin- 
sett,  patting  her  hand,  and  then  she  looked 
at  the  other. 

"  I  'm  Lucy  Eastman  still,"  she  said ; 
"just  the  same  Lucy  Eastman." 

"  And  a  very  good  thing  to  be,  too," 
said  Miss  Pinsett,  nodding  her  delicate  old 
head  kindly.  "  But,"  and  she  scanned 
her  face,  "  but,  now  that  I  look  at  you, 
not  quite  the  same  Lucy  Eastman  —  not 
quite  the  same." 

"  Older  and  plainer,"  she  sighed. 

"Of  all  the  nonsense !  "  exclaimed 
old  Miss  Pinsett.  "  You  're  not  quite  so 
shy,  that 's  all,  my  dear." 

"  I  'm  shy  now,"  asserted   Lucy. 

"Very  likely,  but  not  quite  so  shy  as 
you  were,  for  all  that.  Don't  tell  me! 
1  Ve  a  quick  eye  for  changes,  and  so  I 
can  see  changes  in  you  two  when  it  may 
be  another  would  n't." 

Before  the  excitement  of  her  welcome 
had  been  subdued  into  mere  gladness, 
there  was  a  discreet  tap  at  the  door,  and 
9  129 


A  Postlude 

the  respectable  maid  came  in  with  a  tray 
of  sherry-glasses  and  cake.  Mary  Leon- 
ard and  Lucy  Eastman  looked  at  each 
other  brimming  over  with  smiles.  It  was 
the  same  kind  of  cake,  and  might  have 
been  cut  off  the  same  loaf. 

"Never  any  cake  like  yours,"  said 
Mary  Leonard. 

"I  remember  you  like  my  cake,"  said 
old  Miss  Pinsett,  smiling;  "take  a  bigger 
piece,  child." 

They  wanted  to  know  many  things 
about  the  people  and  the  town,  all  of 
which  Miss  Pinsett  could  tell  them. 

The  shadows  grew  longer,  the  room 
dimmer,  and  Miss  Pinsett  had  the  maid 
throw  open  the  blinds  to  let  in  the  west- 
ern sunlight.  A  shaft  of  illumination  fell 
across  one  of  the  Japanese  vases,  and  a 
dragon  blinked,  and  the  smooth  round 
head  of  a  mandarin  gleamed.  There  was 
an  old-fashioned  trumpet-creeper  outside 
the  window. 

"  But  we  must  go,"  exclaimed  Mary 
130 


A  Postlude 

Leonard  at  last,  rising  and  taking  up  her 
bonnet.  "  Oh,  no,  thank  you,  we  must 
not  stay,  Miss  Pinsett ;  we  are  going  to- 
morrow, and  we  are  tired  with  all  the 
pleasure  of  to-day,  and  we  have  so  much 
—  so  much  to  talk  over.  We  shall 
talk  all  night,  as  we  used  to,  I  am 
afraid." 

"  But  before  you  go,  girls,"  said  Miss 
Pinsett,  laying  a  fragile,  white  slender 
hand  on  each,  "you  must  sing  for  me 
some  of  the  songs  you  used  to  sing  — 
you  know  some  very  pretty  duets." 

Mary  Leonard  and  Lucy  Eastman 
paused,  amazed,  and  looked  into  each 
other's  faces  in  dismay.  Sing  ?  —  had 
they  ever  sung  duets  ?  They  had  not 
sung  a  note  for  years,  except  in  church. 

"  But  I  don't  know  any  songs,  Miss 
Pinsett,"  stammered  Mary  Leonard. 

"  I  have  forgotten  all  I  ever  knew," 
echoed  Lucy  Eastman. 

"  No  excuses,  now  —  no  excuses  ! 
You  were  always  great  for  excuses,  but 


A  Postlude 

you  would  always   sing   for   me.     I  want 
1  County  Guy/  to  begin  with." 

By  a  common  impulse  the  visitors 
moved  slowly  towards  the  piano ;  they 
would  try,  at  least,  since  Miss  Pinsett 
wanted  them  to.  Lucy  seated  herself 
and  struck  a  few  uncertain  chords.  Pos- 
sibly the  once  familiar  room,  Mary  Leon- 
ard at  her  side,  Miss  Pinsett  listening  in 
her  own  high-backed  chair,  the  scent  of 
the  mignonette  in  the  blue  bowl  —  possi- 
bly one  or  all  of  these  things  brought  back 
the  old  tune. 

"  Ah,  County  Guy, 
The  hour  is  nigh, 
The  sun  has  left  the  lea." 

The  sweet,  slender  voice  floated  through 
the  room,  and  Mary  Leonard's  deeper 
contralto  joined  and  strengthened  it. 

"  Now,    I    will    have     '  Flow     Gently, 

Sweet  Afton,'  "  said  Miss  Pinsett,  quite  as 

if  it  were  a  matter  of  course.     And  they 

sang    "  Flow  Gently,  Sweet  Afton."     It 

132 


A  Postlude 

was  during  the  last  verse  that  the  parlor 
door  opened  softly,  and  a  tall,  fine-looking 
man,  erect,  with  beautiful  silver  curling 
hair,  and  firm  lines  about  the  handsome, 
clean-shaven  mouth,  appeared  on  the  thresh- 
old and  stood  waiting.  As  the  singing 
finished,  Miss  Pinsett  shook  her  head  at 
him. 

"  You  were  always  coming  in  and 
breaking  up  the  singing,  Tom  Endover," 
she  said. 

The  two  women  left  the  piano  and 
came  forward. 

"  You  used  to  know  Mary  Greenleaf, 
—  she's  Mrs.  Leonard  now,  —  and  Lucy 
Eastman,  Tom,"  she  went  on. 

Apparently  Mr.  Endover  was  not  heed- 
ing the  introduction,  but  was  coming 
towards  them  with  instant  recognition  and 
outstretched  hand.  They  often  discussed 
afterward  if  he  would  have  known  them 
without  Miss  Pinsett.  Mary  Leonard 
thought  he  would,  but  Lucy  Eastman  did 
not  always  agree  with  her. 
133 


A  Postlude 

"  You  don't  have  to  tell  me  who  they 
are,"  he  said,  grasping  their  hands  cor- 
dially. "  Telling  Tom  Endover  who 
Mary  Greenleaf  and  Lucy  Eastman  are, 
indeed  !  "  There  was  a  mingling  of  cour- 
teous deference  and  frank,  not  to  be  re- 
pressed, good  comradeship  in  his  manner 
which  was  delightful.  Mary  Leonard's 
dimples  came  and  went,  and  delicate  waves 
of  color  flowed  and  ebbed  in  Lucy  East- 
man's soft  cheeks. 

"  I  'm  too  old  always  to  remember  that 
there  's  no  telling  a  United  States  senator 
anything,"  retorted  Miss  Pinsett,  with  a 
keen  glance  from  her  dimmed  but  pene- 
trating eyes. 

"  As  to  that,  I  don't  believe  I  'd  ever 
have  been  a  United  States  senator  if  it 
was  n't  for  what  you've  told  me,  Miss  Pin- 
sett,"  laughed  Endover.  "  I  'm  always 
coming  here  to  be  taken  down,  Mary,"  he 
went  on ;  "  she  does  it  just  as  she  used 
to." 

Mary  Leonard  caught  her  breath  a  little 
134 


A  Postlude 

at  the  sound  of  her  Christian  name,  but 
"  I  did  n't  know  there  was  any  taking  you 
down,  Tom  Endover,"  she  retorted  before 
she  thought ;  and  they  all  laughed. 

They  found  many  things  to  say  in  the 
few  minutes  longer  that  hey  stayed,  before 
Mr.  Endover  took  them  out  and  put  them 
in  their  cab.  He  insisted  upon  coming  the 
next  morning  to  take  them  to  the  station 
in  his  own  carriage,  and  regretted  very 
much  that  his  wife  was  out  of  town,  so 
that  she  could  not  have  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  his  old  friends. 

"He's  just  the  same,  isn't  he?"  ex- 
claimed Mary  Leonard,  delightedly,  as 
they  drove  away. 

"  Yes,"  assented  Lucy  Eastman,  slowly ; 
u  I  think  he  is ;  and  yet  he  's  different." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he 's  different,"  replied  Mary 
Leonard,  readily.  Both  were  quite  uncon- 
scious of  any  discrepancy  in  their  state- 
ments as  they  silently  thought  over  the 
impression  he  had  made.  He  was  the 
same  handsome,  confident  Tom  Endover, 
135 


A  Postlude 

but  there  was  something  gone,  —  and  was 
there  not  something  in  its  place?  Had 
that  gay  courtesy,  that  debonair  good  fel- 
lowship, changed  into  something  more 
finished,  but  harder  and  more  conscious  ? 
Was  there  a  suggestion  that  his  old  care- 
less charm  had  become  a  calculated  and  a 
clearly  appreciated  facility  ?  Lucy  East- 
man did  not  formulate  the  question,  and 
it  did  not  even  vaguely  present  itself  to 
Mary  Leonard,  so  it  troubled  the  pleasure 
of  neither. 

"  What  a  day  we  have  had ! "  they 
sighed  in  concert  as  they  drove  up  again  to 
the  entrance  of  the  inn. 

"  Lucy,"  called  Mary  Leonard,  a  little 
later,  from  one  of  their  connecting  rooms 
to  the  other,  "  I  'm  going  to  put  on  my 
best  black  net,  because  Tom  Endover 
may  call  to-night."  Then  she  paused  to 
catch  Lucy  Eastman's  prompt  reply. 

"  And  I  shall  put  on  my  lavender 
lawn,  but  it'll  be  just  our  luck  to  have 
it  Samuel  Hatt." 

136 


A  Postlude 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Endover  called 
for  them,  and  they  were  driven  to  the  sta- 
tion in  his  brougham. 

He  put  them  on  the  train,  and  bought 
the  magazines  for  them,  and  waved  his 
hand  to  the  car  window. 

"You  know,  Lucy,"  said  Mary  Leon- 
ard, as  the  train  pulled  out,  "  Tom  End- 
over  always  used  to  come  to  see  us  off." 

"  Of  course  he  did,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Do  you  know,  I  'm  rather  glad  his 
wife  was  out  of  town,"  went  on  Mary 
Leonard,  after  a  pause.  "  I  should  like 
to  have  seen  her  well  enough,  but  you 
know  she  was  n't  an  Englefield  girl." 

"  What  can  she  know  about  old  Engle- 
field ! "  said  Lucy,  with  mild  contempt. 
"  I  'm  very  glad  she  was  out  of  town." 

As  they  left  the  city  behind  them,  the 
early  morning  sun  shone  forth  with  vivid 
brilliancy.  Against  the  western  sky  the 
buildings  stood  out  with  a  peculiar  dis- 
tinctness, as  if  the  yellow  light  shining 
upon  them  was  an  illumination  inherent 
137 


A  Postlude 

in  themselves,  singling  them  out  of  the 
landscape,  and  leaving  untouched  the  cold 
gray  behind  them.  The  lines  of  brick 
and  stone  had  the  clearness  and  precision 
of  a  photograph,  and  yet  were  idealized, 
so  that  in  the  yellow,  mellow,  transparent 
light  a  tall,  smoke-begrimed  chimney  of  a 
distant  furnace  looked  airy  and  delicate  as 
an  Italian  tower. 


138 


The  "Daily  Morning 
Chronicle  " 

THE  village  lay  still  and  silent  under 
the  observant  sun.  The  village 
street  stretched  in  one  direction  down  the 
hill  to  the  two-mile s-off  railway  station, 
and  in  the  other  to  the  large  white  house 
with  pillared  portico,  from  which  there  was 
a  fine  view  of  the  sunset,  and  beyond  which 
it  still  continued,  purposeful  but  lonely, 
until  it  came  suddenly  upon  half  a  dozen 
houses  which  turned  out  to  be  another 
village. 

Not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  crossed 
from  one  house  to  another ;  not  a  dog  or 
a  cat  wandered  about  in  the  sunshine. 
The  white  houses  looked  as  if  no  one 
lived  in  them ;  the  white  church,  with  its 
sloping  approach,  looked  as  if  no  one  ever 
139 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

preached  in  it  and  no  one  ever  came  to 
it  to  listen.  It  seemed  to  Lucyet  Stevens, 
as  she  sat  at  the  little  window  of  the  post- 
office,  behind  which  her  official  face 
looked  so  much  more  important  than  it 
ever  did  anywhere  else,  as  if  the  village 
street  itself  were  listening  for  the  arrival  of 
the  noon  mail.  For  it  was  nearly  time  for 
the  daily  period  of  almost  feverish  activity. 
By  and  by  from  the  station  would  come 
Truman  Hanks  with  the  leather  bag  which, 
in  village  and  city  alike,  is  the  outward  and 
visible  sign  of  the  fidelity  of  the  govern- 
ment. It  is  probable  that  he  will  bring  it 
up  in  a  single  carriage,  for  though  some- 
times he  takes  the  two-seated  one,  in 
case  there  should  be  a  human  arrival  who 
would  like  to  be  driven  up,  this  possibility 
was  so  slight  a  one  at  this  time  o£  year 
that  it  was  hardly  worth  considering. 
Then  the  village  will  awake ;  the  two 
little  girls  who  live  down  below  the  saw- 
mill will  come  up  together,  confiding 
on  the  way  a  secret  or  two,  for  which  the 
140 


The  "Daily  Morning  Chronicle" 

past  twenty-four  hours  would  seem  to  have 
afforded  slender  material.  Then  old  John 
Thomas  will  come  limping  across  from  his 
small  house  back  of  the  church,  to  see  if 
there  is  a  letter  for  "  her,"  —  she  being 
his  wife,  and  in  occasional  communication 
with  their  daughter  in  the  city.  Then 
the  good-looking,  roughly  clad  young 
farmer  who  takes  care  of  the  fine  place 
with  the  pillared  portico  on  the  hill  will 
saunter  down  to  see  if  "  the  folks  have 
sent  any  word  about  coming  up  for  the 
summer."  Then  Miss  Granger,  who 
lives  almost  next  door,  will  throw  a  shawl 
over  her  head  and  run  in  to  see  who  has 
letters  and,  incidentally,  if  she  has  any 
herself;  and  then  one  or  two  wagons  will 
draw  up  in  front  of  the  little  store,  and 
the  men  will  come  in  for  their  daily 
papers. 

As  Lucyet  came  around  to    the    daily 

papers  she  flushed  and  looked  impatiently 

out   of  the   door   down  the    street.     Not 

that  the  thought  of  the  daily  paper  had  not 

141 


The  "  Daily   Morning  Chronicle  " 

been  all  the  time  in  the  background  of  her 
mind,  but  having  allowed  her  fancy  to 
wander  towards  the  attitude  of  the  village 
and  its  prospective  disturbance,  she  re- 
turned to  the  imminence  of  the  daily  paper 
again  with  a  thrill  of  emotion.  It  was 
not  one  of  the  metropolitan  journals  which, 
as  a  body,  the  village  subscribed  for,  nor 
was  it  one  of  the  more  widely  known  of 
those  issued  in  smaller  cities;  it  was  an 
unpretentious  sheet,  neither  very  ably 
edited  nor  extensively  circulated,  —  the 
chief  spokesman  of  the  nearest  county 
town.  But  with  all  its  limitations,  its 
readers  represented  to  Lucyet  the  great 
harsh,  unknowing,  and  yet  irresistibly 
attractive  public. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  she  had 
thus  watched  for  it  with  mute  excitement. 
Such  episodes,  though  infrequent,  had 
marked  her  otherwise  uneventful  existence 
at  irregular  intervals  for  more  than  a  year. 
It  would  be  more  correct  to  say  that  they 
had  altered  its  entire  course ;  that  such 
142 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

episodes  had  given  to  her  life  a  double 
character,  —  one  side  of  calmness,  secrecy, 
indifference,  and  the  other  of  delight, 
absorption,  thrilled  with  a  breathless  excite- 
ment and  uncertainty.  But  this  time  there 
was  a  greater  than  ordinary  interest.  The 
verses  that  she  had  sent  last  were  more 
ambitious  in  conception ;  they  had  descrip- 
tion in  them,  and  mental  analysis,  and 
several  other  things  which  very  likely  she 
would  not  have  called  by  their  right  names, 
though  she  felt  their  presence:  her  other 
contributions  had  belonged  rather  to  the 
poetry  of  comment.  She  was  sure,  almost 
sure,  that  they  had  accepted  these. 

Unsophisticated  Lucyet  never  dreamed 
of  enclosing  postage  for  return,  so  she 
could  only  breathlessly  search  the  printed 
page  to  discover  whether  her  lines  were 
there  or  in  the  waste-basket.  Friday's 
edition  of  the  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 
was  more  or  less  given  over  to  the  feeble 
claims  of  general  literature.  To-day  was 
Friday.  Lucyet  glanced  through  her  little 
143 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  '' 

window  —  the  tastefully  disposed  corner 
of  which  was  dedicated  to  the  postal  ser- 
vice—  at  the  tin  of  animal  crackers,  the 
jar  of  prunes,  the  suspended  bacon,  and 
the  box  of  Spanish  licorice,  and  pondered, 
half  contemptuously,  half  pitifully,  on  what 
had  been  her  life  before  she  had  written 
poems  and  sent  them  to  the  "  Daily  Morn- 
ing Chronicle."  Then  her  outlook  had 
seemed  scarcely  wider  than  that  of  the 
animal  crackers  with  their  counterfeit  vi- 
tality ;  now  it  seemed  extended  to  the 
horizon  of  all  humanity. 

There  was  the  sound  of  horses'  feet 
coming  over  the  hill.  Was  it  the  mail 
wagon  ?  No,  it  was  a  heavier  vehicle  ; 
and  the  voice  of  the  farmer,  slow  and 
lumbering  as  the  animals  it  encouraged, 
sounded  down  the  village  street.  Over 
the  crest  of  the  hill  appeared  the  summit 
of  a  load  of  hay  going  to  the  scales  in 
front  of  the  tavern  to  be  weighed.  So 
silent  were  the  place  and  the  hour,  that 
it  was  like  a  commotion  when  the  cart 
144 


The  "  Daily   Morning  Chronicle  " 

drew  up,  and  the  horses  were  unhitched 
and  weighed,  and  then  the  load  driven 
on,  and  the  owner  and  the  hotel-keeper 
exchanged  observations  of  a  genial  na- 
ture. Finally  the  horses  and  the  wagon 
creaked  along  the  hot  street  down  the  road 
which  led  by  the  pillared  white  house,  and 
again  the  village  was  at  peace.  Lucyet 
glanced  at  the  clock.  Was  the  mail  going 
to  be  late  this  morning  ?  No.  The  creak- 
ing of  the  hay  wagon  had  but  just  lost 
itself  in  the  silence,  when  her  quick  ear 
caught  the  rattle  of  the  lighter  carriage. 
Her  first  impulse  was  to  step  to  the  door 
and  wait  for  it  there,  but  she  did  not  yield 
to  it ;  she  would  do  just  as  usual,  neither 
more  nor  less.  She  would  not  for  worlds 
have  Truman  Hanks  suspect  any  special 
interest  on  her  part.  He  might  try  to 
find  out  its  cause ;  and  a  hot  blush  en- 
veloped Lucyet  as  she  contemplated  the 
possibility  of  his  assigning  it  to  the  true 
one.  Only  one  person  in  all  the  village 
knew  that  Lucyet  Stevens  wrote  poetry. 
10  I45 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

"  Most  time  for  the  mail  to  be  gittin' 
heavy,"  said  Truman,  as  he  handed  over 
the  limp  receptacle ;  "  the  summer  board- 
ers '11  be  along  now,  before  long." 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  they  will,"  answered 
Lucyet,  her  fingers  trembling  as  they  un- 
locked the  bag. 

"  It 's  a  backward  season,  though,"  he 
went  on,  watching  her. 

"  Yes,  it  is  uncommon  backward ;  the 
apple  blossoms  are  n't  but  just  beginning 
to  come  out." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  sus- 
picion in  his  observation.  He  leaned 
lazily  over  the  counter,  while  she  took  out 
the  mail  within  the  little  office  with  its 
front  of  letter-boxes. 

"  This  hot  spell  '11  bring  'em  out.  It 's 
the  first  hot  spell  we  've  had." 

"Yes,"  she  assented,  blushing  again, 
"it  will." 

She  had  spoken  of  the  tardy  apple 
blossoms  in  her  poem,  —  it  was  entitled 
"  Spring."  Two  or  three  people,  having 
146 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

seen  the  mail  go  by,  dropped  in  and  dis- 
posed themselves  in  various  attitudes  to 
wait  for  it  to  be  distributed.  She  hurried 
through  the  work,  her  fingers  tingling  to 
open  each  copy  of  the  newspaper  as  she 
laid  it  in  its  place.  At  last  it  was  done; 
the  little  window  which  had  been  shut  to 
produce  official  seclusion  was  reopened ; 
and  the  people  came  up,  one  by  one,  with- 
out much  haste,  and  received  the  papers 
and  now  and  then  a  letter.  It  did  not 
take  long;  and  afterward  they  stood  about 
and  talked  and  traded  a  little,  their  papers 
unopened  in  their  hands.  It  was  not 
likely  that  the  news  from  outside  was 
going  to  affect  any  one  of  them  very 
much  ;  they  could  wait  for  it ;  and  reading 
matter  was  for  careful  attention  at  home, 
not  for  skimming  over  in  public  places. 

Lucyet  found  their  indifference  pheno- 
menal ;  they  did  not  know  what  might  be 
waiting  for  them  in  the  first  column  of 
the  third  page.  Was  it  waiting  for  them  ? 
The  suspense  was  almost  overwhelming  ; 
M7 


The  "Daily  Morning  Chronicle" 

and  yet  she  did  not  like  to  open  the  copy 
which  lay  at  her  disposal  until  the  store 
was  empty  ;  she  had  a  nervous  feeling  that 
they  would  all  know  what  she  was  looking 
for.  Slowly  the  group  melted  away,  till 
there  was  no  one  left  except  the  proprietor, 
who  had  gone  into  the  back  room  to  look 
after  some  seed  corn,  and  Silas,  the  young 
farmer,  who  had  thrown  himself  down  into 
a  chair  to  read  his  paper  at  his  leisure,  and 
was  not  noticing  Lucyet.  Eagerly  she 
opened  the  printed  sheet.  She  caught  her 
breath  in  the  joy  of  assurance.  There  it 
was  — "  Spring."  It  stood  out  as  if  it 
were  printed  all  in  capitals.  After  a  fur- 
tive look  out  at  the  quiet  street,  where,  in 
a  rusty  wagon,  an  old  man  was  just  pick- 
ing up  his  reins  and  preparing  to  jog  away 
from  the  post-office  door,  and  a  side  glance 
at  Silas's  broad  back  over  by  the  farther 
window,  Lucyet  read  over  her  own  lines. 
How  different  they  looked  from  the  copy 
in  her  own  distinct,  formal  little  hand- 
writing !  They  had  gained  something,  — 
148 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

but  they  had  lost  something  too.  They 
seemed  unabashed,  almost  declamatory,  in 
their  sentiment.  They  had  aquired  a  new 
and  positive  importance;  it  was  as  if  the 
assertions  they  made  had  all  at  once  be- 
come truths,  had  ceased  to  be  tentative. 
She  read  them  over  again.  No,  they  did 
not  tell  it  all,  all  that  she  meant  to  say ; 
but  they  brought  back  the  day,  and  she  was 
glad  she  had  written  them,  —  glad  with  an 
agitated,  inexpressible  gladness.  She  would 
like  to  know  what  people  said  of  them;  for 
a  moment  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  would 
not  mind  if  they  knew  that  she  wrote  them. 

"  Well,"  said  Silas,  laying  down  his 
paper  and  standing  up,  "  there  is  n't  a 
blamed  thing  in  that  paper!  " 

Lucyet  looked  up  at  him  startled.  Had 
she  heard  aright  ?  Then  the  color  slowly 
receded  from  her  face  and  left  it  pale. 
Silas  was  quite  unconscious  of  having 
made  an  unusual  statement. 

"  Well,  Lucyet,"  he  went  on,  "  going 
to  the  Christian  Endeavor  to-night  ? " 
149 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

u  I  don't  know,"  she  stammered. 
"  No,"  she  added  suddenly,  "  I  am  not." 
All  endeavor  was  a  mockery  to  her  stunned 
soul. 

"  I  dunno  as  I  will  either,"  he  observed 
carelessly  as  he  lounged  out. 

It  was  nothing  to  her  whether  he  went 
or  not,  though  once  it  might  have  been. 
She  sat  still  for  some  minutes  after  he  had 
gone,  looking  blankly  at  the  paper.  The 
page  which  a  few  minutes  ago  had  seemed 
fairly  to  glow  with  interest  had  become 
mere  columns  of  print  concerning  trivial 
things;  for  an  instant  she  saw  it  with 
Silas's  eyes.  John  Thomas  came  limping 
for  his  mail.  He  had  been  detained  on 
the  way,  he  explained,  and  was  late.  She 
handed  him  his  paper  through  the  window, 
dully,  indifferently.  She  was  suffering  a 
measure  of  that  disappointment  which 
comes  with  what  we  have  grown  to  be- 
lieve attainment,  and  is  so  much  more  bitter 
than  that  of  failure.  But  the  revolt  against 
this  unnatural  state  of  mind  came  before 
150 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

long.  The  elasticity  of  her  own  enthu- 
siasm reasserted  itself.  It  could  not  be 
that  there  was  nothing  in  her  poem.  She 
read  the  lines  over  again.  Two  or  three 
were  not  quite  what  they  ought  to  be, 
somehow ;  but  the  rest  of  them  the  world 
would  lay  hold  of,  —  that  big  sympathetic 
world  which  knew  so  much  more  than 
Silas  Stevens. 

When  the  hour  came  to  close  the  office 
at  noon,  she  locked  the  drawer  and  passed 
out  of  the  door  to  the  footpath  with  a 
sense  of  triumph  under  the  habitual  shy- 
ness of  her  manner.  She  still  shrank  from 
the  publicity  she  had  achieved,  but  she 
was  conscious  of  an  undercurrent  of  desire 
that  her  achievement,  since  it  was  real, 
should  be  recognized. 

When  the  old  postmaster  died,  leaving 
Lucyet,  his  only  child,  alone  in  the  world, 
and  interest  in  official  quarters  had  pro- 
cured for  her  the  appointment  in  her 
father's  place,  a  home  had  also  been  offered 
her  at  Miss  Flood's ;  and  it  was  thither 


The  "Daily  Morning  Chronicle" 

that  Lucyet  now  went  for  her  noonday 
meal.  Miss  Delia  Flood  was  of  most 
kindly  disposition  and  literary  tastes. 
That  these  tastes  were  somewhat  pre- 
scribed in  their  manifestation  was  no 
witness  against  their  genuineness.  It 
must  be  confessed  that  Miss  Delia's 
preference  was  for  the  sentimental,  — 
though  she  would  have  modestly  shrunk 
from  hearing  it  thus  baldly  stated,  —  and, 
naturally,  for  poetry  above  prose.  The 
modern  respect  for  "  strength  "  in  litera- 
ture would  have  impressed  her  most  pain- 
fully had  she  known  of  it.  The  mind  turns 
aside  from  the  contemplation  of  the  effect 
that  a  story  or  two  of  Kipling's  would 
have  produced  upon  her  could  she  have 
grasped  their  vocabulary ;  she  would 
probably  have  taken  to  her  bed  in  sheer 
fright,  as  she  did  in  a  thunderstorm. 
Poetry  of  the  heart  and  emotions,  which 
never  verged,  even  most  distantly,  upon 
what  her  traditions  and  her  susceptibilities 
told  her  was  the  indecorous,  satisfied  her 
152 


The  "Daily  Morning  Chronicle" 

highest  demands,  and  the  less  said  about 
nature,  except  by  way  of  an  occasional 
willow,  or  the  sad,  sweet  scent  of  a 
jasmine  flower,  the  better.  Miss  Delia 
had  fostered  Lucyet's  love  for  literature; 
and  it  was  to  Miss  Delia  that  Lucyet 
hastened  with  the  great  news  of  the  publi- 
cation of  her  poem.  It  was  for  this  acute 
pleasure  that  she  had  hitherto  kept  the 
knowledge  of  her  attempt  from  her,  —  and, 
too,  that  her  joy  might  be  full,  and  that 
she  would  not  have  to  suffer  the  alternat- 
ing phases  of  hope  and  fear  through  which 
Lucyet  herself  had  passed. 

As  she  entered  the  room  where  dinner 
stood  on  the  table  and  Miss  Delia  waited 
to  eat  it  with  her,  she  suppressed  the 
trembling  excitement  which  threatened  to 
make  itself  visible  in  her  manner  now 
that  the  words  were  upon  her  very  lips. 
They  seated  themselves  at  the  'table. 
Miss  Delia  was  small  and  wiry  and  grave, 
and  never  spilled  anything  on  the  table- 
cloth when  helping. 

153 


The  "Daily  Morning  Chronicle" 

"Miss  Delia,"  said  Lucyet,  "I've 
written  a  poem." 

Her  companion  looked  at  her  and 
smiled  a  shrewd  little  smile.  "  I  've 
guessed  as  much  before  now,"  she  said. 

"  But,"  said  Lucyet,  laying  down  her 
knife  and  fork,  "  it  has  been  printed." 

"  Printed,  child !  "  exclaimed  Miss 
Delia,  almost  dropping  hers.  At  last 
the  cup  of  satisfaction  was  at  Lucyet's 
lips ;  at  least  she  had  not  overestimated 
the  purport  of  the  event  to  one  human 
being. 

"  Printed,"  repeated  Lucyet,  smiling 
softly.  "  Here  it  is  in  the  paper." 

Miss  Delia  pushed  aside  her  plate, 
seized  the  paper,  and,  opening  it,  searched 
its  columns.  She  had  not  to  look  long  ; 
there  was  but  one  poem.  Lucyet  watched 
with  shining  eyes.  This  is  what  it  meant ; 
this  was  the  realization  of  her  dreams  — 
to  see  the  reader  pass  over  the  rest  of  the 
page  as  trivial,  to  be  arrested  with  spell- 
bound interest  at  the  word  "  Spring,"  to 
154 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

know  that  the   words  that  held  that  ab- 
sorbed attention  were  her  words  —  her  own. 

As  Miss  Delia  read,  gradually  her  ex- 
pression changed ;  from  eagerness  it  faded 
into  perplexity.  Lucyet  watched  her 
breathlessly,  her  hands  clasped,  her  thin 
arms  and  somewhat  angular  elbows  rest- 
ing on  the  coarse  tablecloth.  From  per- 
plexity Miss  Delia's  look  was  chilled  into 
what  the  observant  girl  recognized,  with 
a  dull  pain  at  her  heart,  as  disappoint- 
ment. Lucyet  averted  her  gaze  to  a  dish 
of  ill-shaped  boiled  potatoes  ;  there  was  no 
need  of  watching  longer  the  face  opposite. 
Miss  Delia  read  it  all  through  again, 
dwelling  on  certain  lines,  which  she  indi- 
cated by  her  forefinger,  with  special  at- 
tention ;  then  she  looked  up  timidly. 
She  met  Lucyet's  unsmiling  eyes  for  a 
moment ;  then  she,  too,  looked  away, 
hurriedly,  helplessly,  to  the  dish  of  boiled 
potatoes. 

"I'm  sure  it  is  very  nice  —  very  nice 
indeed,  Lucyet,"  she  said. 
155 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

"But  you  don't  like  it,"  said  Lucyet. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  poor  Miss  Delia  has- 
tened to  say.  "  I  do  like  it ;  the  rhymes 
are  in  the  right  places,  and  all,  and  it  looks 
so  nice  in  the  colyum."  Mechanically 
she  pulled  her  plate  back  again,  and  Lucyet 
did  the  same.  "  I  'm  proud  of  you, 
Lucyet,"  she  went  on  with  a  forced  little 
smile,  "  that  you  can  write  real  poetry  like 
that." 

"  But  what  if  it  is  n't  real  poetry  ?  " 
said  Lucyet. 

The  doubt  was  wrung  from  her  by  the 
overwhelming  bitterness  of  her  disappoint- 
ment. A  rush  of  tears  was  smarting  be- 
hind her  rather  inexpressive  eyes ;  but  she 
held  them  back.  Miss  Delia  was  thor- 
oughly distressed.  She  put  aside  her  own 
serious  misgivings. 

41  But  it  must  be,"  she  argued  eagerly, 
w  or  they  would  n't  have  printed  it." 

Lucyet  shook  her  head  as  she  forced 
herself  to  eat  a  morsel  of  bread.  How 
unconvincing  sounded  the  argument  from 
I56 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

another's  lips  !  and  yet  she  knew  now  that 
secretly  it  had  carried  with  it  more  weight 
than  she  had  realized.  Miss  Delia  glanced 
apprehensively  at  the  folded  paper  as  it  lay 
on  the  table.  She  herself  was  disap- 
pointed, deeply  disappointed;  she  had  ex- 
pected much,  and  this,  —  why,  this  was, 
most  of  it,  just  what  any  one  could  find 
out  for  herself.  But  she  must  say  some- 
thing more.  Lucyet's  patient  silence  as 
she  went  on  with  her  dinner,  never  raising 
the  eyes  which  had  so  shone  when  she  first 
spoke,  demanded  speech  from  her  more 
urgently  than  louder  claims. 

"  I  suppose  I  thought  perhaps  there 
would  be  more  about  —  about  misfortune, 
and  scattered  leaves,  and  dells,"  —  poor 
Miss  Delia  smiled  deprecatingly,  while  she 
felt  wildly  about  for  more  tangible  remi- 
niscences of  her  favorite  poets,  that  she 
might  respond  to  the  unuttered  questioning 
of  Lucyet,  —  "  and  "  —  she  dropped  her 
eyes  —  "  lovers." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  dells 
157 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

and  lovers,"  said  Lucyet,  simply;  "how 
should  I  ? " 

Miss  Delia  started  a  little.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  her  that  one  must  know  about 
things  personally  in  order  to  write  poetry 
about  them.  If  it  had,  she  would  never 
have  dreamed  of  mentioning  lovers. 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  she  said  hastily  ; 
"  but  writing  about  a  thing  is  n't  like 
knowing  about  it." 

Lucyet  was  not  experienced  enough  to 
detect  any  fallacy  in  this,  and  she  dumbly 
acquiesced. 

"You  have  in  all  the  grass  and  trees 
and  —  and  such  things  as  you  have  in  — 
very  nicely,  I  'm  sure,"  went  on  Miss 
Delia ;  "  only  next  time  "  —  and  she 
smiled  brightly  — "  next  time  you  must 
put  in  what  we  don't  see  every  day  —  like 
islands  and  reefs  and  such  things.  I  know 
you  could  write  a  beautiful  poem  about  a 
reef — a  coral  reef." 

Lucyet  tried  to  smile  hopefully  in  re- 
turn, but  the  attempt  was  a  failure.  She 
158 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

had  finished  her  dinner,  and  she  longed  to 
get  away  ;  she  was  so  hurt  that  she  must 
be  alone  to  see  how  it  was  to  be  borne. 
She  helped  Miss  Delia  clear  the  table  and 
wash  the  dishes,  almost  in  silence.  Two 
or  three  times  they  exchanged  words  on 
indifferent  subjects ;  Miss  Delia  asked  who 
had  had  letters,  and  Lucyet  told  her,  but 
it  was  hard  work  for  both.  When  it  was 
over,  Lucyet  paused  in  the  doorway,  put- 
ting on  her  .straw  hat  to  go  back  to  the 
post-office. 

Miss  Delia  stood  a  moment  irresolute, 
and  then  stepped  to  her  side.  "  Lucyet," 
she  said,  her  voice  trembling,  "  I  don't 
understand  it  exactly.  It  is  n't  like  the 
poetry  I  've  been  used  to.  There  are 
things  in  it  that  I  don't  know  what  they 
mean.  To  be  sure,  that 's  so  with  all 
poetry  that  we  do  like,"  —  the  tears  were 
in  her  eyes ;  it  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  dis- 
appoint one  's  best  friend  and  to  be  con- 
scious of  it,  —  "  but  it  is  n't  like  what  I 
thought  it  was  going  to  be,  just  about 
159 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

what  we  see  out  of  the  window.  But  it 's 
my  fault,  just  as  likely  as  not,"  —  she  laid 
her  hand  on  Lucyet's  arm,  —  "that 's  what 
I  want  to  say ;  you  must  n't  take  it  to  heart 
— just 's  likely  's  not,  it 's  my  fault." 

Miss  Delia  did  not  believe  a  word  of 
what  she  was  saying,  which  made  it  diffi- 
cult for  her  to  articulate ;  but  she  was  mak- 
ing a  brave  effort  in  her  sensitive  loyalty. 

"  I  know,"  said  Lucyet,  gently  ;  "  but  I 
guess  it  is  n't  your  fault ;  "  and  she  slipped 
out  to  the  road  on  her  way  to  the  post- 
office.  Miss  Delia  went  back,  picked  up 
the  paper,  and,  seating  herself  at  the  win- 
dow, she  read  "Spring"  all  through  again, 
word  by  word  ;  then  she  laid  it  aside  again, 
shaking  her  head  sadly. 

Lucyet  went  quietly  behind  her  little 
window.  Her  disappointment  amounted 
to  actual  physical  pain.  She  found  no 
comfort,  as  a  wiser  person  might  have 
done,  in  certain  of  Miss  Delia's  expres- 
sions ;  she  only  realized  that  her  best 
friend  and  her  most  generous  critic  could 
1 60 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

find  nothing  good  in  what  she  had  done. 
Her  duty  this  afternoon  was  only  to  make 
up  the  mail  for  the  down  train ;  then  her 
time  was  her  own  till  the  next  mail  train 
came  up  at  half-past  five.  At  two  o'clock 
she  closed  the  office  again  and  started  on  a 
long  walk.  She  longed  for  the  comfort  of 
the  solitary  hillsides,  where  warm  patches 
of  sunlight  lay  at  the  foot  of  ragged  stone 
walls,  and  there  were  long  stretches  of 
plain  and  meadow  to  be  looked  over,  and 
rolling  hills  to  comfort  the  soul.  As  she 
climbed  a  hill  just  before  the  place  where 
a  weedy  untravelled  road  turned  off  from 
the  highway  leading  between  closely 
growing  underbrush  and  stone  walls, 
where  now  and  then  a  shy  bird  rustled 
suddenly  and  invisibly  among  last  year's 
dried  leaves,  she  saw  three  countrymen 
standing  by  the  wayside  and  talking 
with  as  near  an  approach  to  earnest- 
ness as  ever  visits  the  colloquies  of 
the  ordinary  unemotional  New  Englander. 
One  of  them  held  a  copy  of  the  "  Daily 
ii  161 


The  "Daily  Morning  Chronicle" 

Chronicle,"  gesturing  with  it  somewhat 
jerkily  as  he  spoke. 

For  a  moment  the  hope  that  it  is  hard 
to  make  away  with  revived  in  Lucyet's 
breast.  Were  they  talking  of  the  poem, 
she  wondered,  with  a  certain  weary  inter- 
est. She  dreaded  a  fresh  disappointment 
so  keenly  that  it  pained  her  to  speculate 
much  on  the  chance  of  it.  It  was  not 
impossible  that  they  were  saying  such 
meaningless  stuff  ought  never  to  have 

O  c- 

been  printed.  As  the  pale  girl  drew  near 
with  the  plodding,  patient  step  which  so 
often  proclaims  that  walking  is  not  a 
pleasure,  but  a  necessity,  of  country  life, 
the  men  did  not  lower  their  voices,  which 
she  heard  distinctly  as  she  passed. 

"  Wai,  I  tell  you,  't  was  that,"  said  one 
of  them.  "  He  did  n't  live  more  'n  a  little 
time  after  he  took  it." 

"  Mebbe  he  would  n't  have  lived  any- 
how." 

"Wai,  mebbe  he  wouldn't.  'T ain't 
for  me  to  say,"  responded  the  first  speaker, 
162 


The  "Dally  Morning  Chronicle" 

evincing  a  certain  piety,  which,  however, 
was  not  to  be  construed  as  at  variance  with 
his  first  statement. 

"  Wai,  't  vva'n't  this  he  took,  was  it  ?  " 
demanded  the  man  with  the  "  Chronicle," 
waving  it  wildly. 

"  Wai,  no,  't  wa'n't,"  responded  the 
other,  reasonably.  The  third  member  of 
the  party  maintained  an  air  of  not  being  in 
a  position  to  judge,  and  regarded  Lucyet 
stolidly  as  she  approached. 

u  Do,  Lucyet  ?  "  he  observed,  unnoticed 
of  the  other  two. 

"  I  tell  you  this  '11  cure  him.  It  '11  cure 
anybody.  Just  read  them  testimonies,"  — 
and  he  pressed  the  paper  into  the  other's 
meagre  hand.  "  Read  that  one,  c  Rheu- 
matiz  of  thirty  years'  standin',  —  it  '11 
interest  ye." 

Lucyet  went  on  up  the  hill,  and  turned 
into  the  weedy  road.  She  had  not  a  keen 
sense  of  the  ridiculous.  It  did  not  strike 
her  as  funny  that  they  should  have  been 
discussing  a  patent  medicine  instead  of  the 
163 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

verses  on  "  Spring ; "  but  her  shrinking 
sense  of  defeat  was  deepened,  and  she 
felt,  with  an  unconscious  resentment,  that 
most  people  cared  very  little  about  poetry. 
She  wondered,  without  bitterness,  and  with 
a  saddened  distrust  of  her  own  power,  if 
she  could  write  an  advertisement.  Once 
within  the  precincts  of  the  tangled  road, 
her  disquieted  soul  rejoiced  in  the  freedom 
from  observation.  She  felt  as  bruised  and 
sore  from  the  unsympathetic  contact  of  her 
world  as  if  it  had  been  a  larger  one ;  and 
with  the  depression  had  come  a  startled 
sense  of  the  irrevocableness  of  what  she 
had  done.  Those  printed  words  seemed 
so  swift,  so  tangible.  They  would  go  so 
far,  and  afford  such  opportunity  for  the 
grasp  of  indifference,  of  ridicule  !  If  she 
could  only  have  them  again,  spoken,  per- 
haps, but  unheard  ! 

Yet  here,  at  least,  where  the  enterpris- 
ing grass  grew  in  the  rugged  cart  track, 
and    the    branches   drooped    impertinently 
before  the  face  of  the  wayfarer,  no  one  but 
164 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

herself  need  know  that  she  was  very  near  to 
tears.  And  as  she  came  out  of  the  shut-in 
portion  of  the  road  to  a  stretch  of  open 
country,  where  the  warm  light  lay  on  the 
hillsides,  and  the  air  was  sweetened  by  the 
breath  of  pines,  her  depression  gave  way  to 
a  keen  sense  of  elation.  She  turned  aside 
and,  crossing  a  bit  of  elastic,  dry  grass, 
climbed  to  the  top  of  the  stone  wall  and 
looked  about  her.  Her  heart  throbbed 
with  confidence,  doubly  grateful  for  the 
previous  distrust.  Her  own  lines  came 
back  to  her;  it  was  this  that  somehow, 
imperfectly,  but  somehow,  she  had  put  into 
words.  It  was  still  spring,  a  late  New 
England  spring,  though  the  unseasonable 
warmth  of  the  day  made  it  seem  summer. 
The  landscape  bore  the  coloring  of  autumn 
rather  than  that  of  the  earlier  year.  The 
trees  were  red  and  brown  and  yellow  in 
their  incipient  leafage.  Now  and  then, 
among  the  sere  fields,  there  was  a  streak 
of  vivid  green,  or  a  mound  of  rich  brown, 
freshly  turned  earth  ;  but  for  the  most  part 
165 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

they  were  bare.  Here  and  there  was  the 
crimson  of  a  new  maple ;  in  the  distance 
were  the  reds  and  brown  of  new,  not  old, 
life.  Only  the  birds  sang  as  they  never 
sing  in  autumn,  a  burst  of  clear,  joyous 
anticipation  —  the  trill  of  the  meadow- 
lark,  the  "  sweet,  sweet,  piercing  sweet " 
of  the  flashing  oriole,  the  call  of  the  cat- 
bird, and  the  melody  of  the  white-bosomed 
thrush.  And  here  and  there  a  fountain  of 
white  bloom  showed  itself  amid  the  som- 
breness  of  the  fields,  a  pear  or  cherry  tree 
decked  from  head  to  foot  in  bridal  white, 
like  a  bit  of  fleecy  cloud  dropped  from  the 
floating  masses  above  to  the  discouraged 
earth  ;  along  the  wayside  the  white  stars 
of  the  anemone,  the  wasteful  profusion  of 
the  eyebright,  and  the  sweet  blue  of  the 
violet  ;  and  in  solemn  little  clusters,  the 
curled  up  fronds  of  the  ferns,  uttering  a 
protest  against  longer  imprisonment  —  let 
wind  and  sun  look  out !  they  would  un- 
curl to-morrow !  All  these  things  set 
the  barely  blossomed  branches,  the  barely 
166 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

clothed  hillsides,  at  defiance.  It  was  the 
beginning,  not  the  end,  the  promise,  not 
the  regret  —  it  was  life,  not  death.  Sum- 
mer was  afoot,  not  winter. 

It  was  worth  a  longer  walk,  that  half 
hour  on  the  hillside  ;  for  it  restored,  in  a 
measure,  her  sense  of  enjoyment,  and  sub- 
stituted for  the  burden  of  defeat  the  exul- 
tation of  expression,  however  faulty  and 
however  limited.  But  like  other  moods, 
this  one  was  temporary ;  and  as  she  re- 
traced her  steps  and  turned  into  the  village 
street,  she  felt  again  the  lassitude  which 
follows  the  extinction  of  hope  and  the 
inexorable  narrowing  of  the  horizon  which 
she  had  fancied  extended. 

It  was  usual  for  her  at  this  hour  to  stop 
at  the  tavern  for  the  mail  which  might  be 
ready  there,  and  herself  take  it  to  the  post- 
office.  In  midsummer  this  mail  was  quite 
an  important  item,  but  at  this  time  of  year 
it  amounted  to  little ;  nevertheless,  she 
followed  what  had  become  the  custom. 
She  found  one  of  the  daughters  of 
167 


The  "Daily  Morning  Chronicle" 

the  house  in  the  throes  of  composi- 
tion. 

"  Oh,  Lucyet,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you 
don't  say  that 's  you  !  I  want  this  to  go 
to-night  the  worst  way.  Ain't  you  early  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  guess  I  am,"  said  Lucyet,  rather 
wearily. 

"  If  you  '11  set  on  the  piazzer  and  wait, 
I  '11  finish  up  in  just  a  minute.  You  see 
we  had  to  get  dinner  for  two  gentlemen  as 
came  down  to  go  fishin'  to-morrer,  and  it 
sorter  put  me  back.  I  wish  you  'd  wait." 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  can  wait  a  few  min- 
utes," said  Lucyet,  the  line  between  her 
personal  and  her  official  capacity  being 
sometimes  a  difficult  one  to  maintain 
rigidly.  She  seated  herself  on  the  piazza, 
not  observing  that  she  was  just  outside  of 
the  window  of  the  room  within  which  the 
two  fishermen  were  smoking  and  talking 
in  a  desultory  fashion.  Later  their  voices 
fell  idly  on  her  ear,  speaking  a  language 
she  only  half  understood,  blending  with 
the  few  lazy  sounds  of  the  afternoon. 
168 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

The  conversation  was  really  extremely 
desultory,  being  chiefly  maintained  by  the 
younger  man  of  the  two,  who  lounged  on 
the  sofa  of  unoriental  luxury  with  a  thor- 
ough-going perversion  of  the  maker's  plan, 
—  his  head  being  where  his  feet  ought  to 
have  been  and  his  feet  hanging  over  the 
portion  originally  intended  for  the  back  of 
his  head.  The  other  man  wore  the  frown 
of  absorption  as,  a  pencil  in  his  hand,  he 
worried  through  some  pages  of  manuscript. 

"  Oh,  I  say,"  observed  the  idler,  "  ain't 
you  'most  through  slaughtering  the  inno- 
cents ?  I  want  to  take  that  walk." 

"  I  told  you  half  an  hour  ago  that  if  I 
could  have  a  few  uninterrupted  minutes 
I  'd  be  with  you,"  answered  the  other 
man,  without  looking  up.  "  They  have  n't 
fallen  in  my  way  yet." 

"  It 's  pity  that  moves  me  to  speech," 
rejoined  the  first  speaker,  rising  and  saun- 
tering to  the  window,  —  not  that  one  out- 
side of  which  Lucyet  was  sitting,  —  "  pity 
for  those  young  souls  throbbing  with  the 
169 


The  "  Daily   Morning  Chronicle  " 

consciousness  of  power  who  may  have 
forgotten  to  enclose  a  stamp  for  return.  I 
feel  when  I  interrupt  you  as  if  I  were 
holding  back  the  remorseless  wheel  of 
fate." 

His  companion  allowed  this  speculative 
remark  to  pass  without  reply.  The  idler 
sauntered  back  to  the  table. 

"  What  '11  you  bet,  now,  before  you  go 
any  further,  that  it  '11  go  into  the  waste- 
basket  ?  " 

"  Stamped  and  addressed  envelope  en- 
closed," observed  the  patient  editor,  ab- 
sently. 

"  Well,  what  odds  will  you  give  me  of 
its  being  not  necessarily  devoid  of  literary 
merit,  but  unfitted  for  the  special  uses  of 
your  magazine  ? " 

The  other  was  still  silent  as  he  laid 
aside  another  page. 

"  Half  the  time,"    continued   the   idler, 

"  to  look  at    you,  you    would  n't    believe 

that  you  speak  the  truth  when  you  express 

your  thanks   for  the   pleasure  of  reading 

170 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

their  manuscripts.  It  would  seem  that 
that,  too,  was  simulated." 

The  older  man  picked  up  a  soft  felt  hat 
and  threw  it  across  the  room  at  his  com- 
panion, without  taking  his  eyes  from  the 
page. 

"  Oh,  well,"  went  on  the  other,  "  I 
can  read  the  newspaper.  I  can  read  what 
is  printed,  while  you  're  reading  what  ought 
to  be.  Of  course  you  and  I  know  the 
things  are  never  the  same." 

Picking  up  the  paper,  he  resumed,  ap- 
proximately, his  former  attitude,  and  applied 
himself  to  its  columns  for  a  few  moments 
of  silence.  Outside  Lucyet  sat  quietly, 
her  head  resting  against  the  white  wooden 
wall  of  the  house ;  and  the  editor  made  a 
mark  or  two. 

"  Now  this  is  what  the  public  want  to 
know,"  resumed  the  idler,  with  a  gratui- 
tous air  of  having  been  pressed  for  his 
opinion.  "You  editors  have  a  ridiculous 
way  of  talking  about  the  public  —  " 

"  It  strikes  me  that  it  is  not  I  who  have 
171 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

been  making  myself  ridiculous  talking 
about  anything." 

41  The  public  !  You  just  tell  the  great 
innocent  public  that  you  are  giving  them 
the  sort  of  thing  they  like,  and  half  the 
time  they  believe  you,  and  half  the  time 
they  don't.  Now  this  man "  —  and  he 
tapped  the  "  Chronicle  "  — "  knows  an 
editor's  business." 

"  Which  is  more  than  you  do,"  inter- 
polated the  goaded  man. 

" 4  The  frame  for  William  Brown's 
new  house  is  up.  William  may  be  trusted 
to  finish  as  well  as  he  has  begun,' "  read 
the  idler,  imperturbably.  "lMiss  Sophie 
Brown  is  visiting  friends  in  Albany.  The 
boys  will  be  glad  to  see  her  back.'  c  Fruit 
of  all  kinds  will  be  scarce,  though  berries 
will  be  abundant.' ''' 

The  older  man  stood  up,  his  pencil  in 
his  mouth.  "  Confound  you,  Richards ! 
Either  you  keep  still  or  I  go  to  my  room 
and  lock  the  door." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  keep  still,"  said  Richards,  as 
172 


The  "  Daily   Morning  Chronicle  " 

if  it  was  the  first  time  it  had  been  sug- 
gested. Again  there  was  a  silence. 

The  letter  must  be  to  Ada's  young 
man,  who  was  doing  a  good  business  in 
cash  registers,  it  took  so  long  to  write  it. 
It  was  within  five  minutes  of  the  time 
Lucyet  should  be  at  the  office.  She 
moved  to  leave  the  piazza,  when  a  not 
loud  exclamation  from  Richards  fell  on 
her  ear  with  unusual  distinctness. 

"  By  Jove  !      I  say,  just  listen  to  this." 

The  editor  looked  up  threateningly,  and 
went  back  to  his  work  again  without  a 
word. 

"  No,  but  really  —  it 's  quite  in  your 
line.  Listen." 

Lucyet  had  moved  forward  a  step  or 
two,  when  she  stood  motionless.  The 
words  that  floated  through  the  window 
were  her  own.  Richards  had  an  unusu- 
ally sweet  voice,  and  he  was  reading  in  a 
way  entirely  different  from  that  in  which 
he  had  rattled  off  the  "  personals." 
There  seemed  a  new  sweetness  in  every 
173 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

syllable;  the  warmth  of  the  hillside, 
the  perfume  of  opening  apple  blossoms, 
breathed  between  the  lines.  He  read 
slowly,  and  the  words  fell  on  the  still  air 
that  seemed  waiting  breathless  to  hear 
them.  When  he  finished,  Lucyet  was 
leaning  against  the  side  of  the  house,  her 
hand  on  her  heart,  her  eyes  shining, — 
and  the  editor  was  looking  at  the 
reader. 

"  There,"  he  concluded,  "  ain't  there 
something  of  the  l  blackbird's  tune  and 
the  bean  flower's  boon  '  in  that  ?  " 

"  Copied,  of  course  ? "  inquired  the 
editor,  briefly. 

"  No.  '  Written  for  the  Daily  Chron- 
icle,' and  signed  l  L.'  Not  bad,  are  they  ? 
Of  course  I  don't  know,"  Richards 
scoffed,  "  and  the  public  would  n't  know 
if  it  read  them,  but  you  know  — " 

"  Read  'em  again." 

A  second  time,  with  increased  expres- 
sion, half  mischievous  now  in  its  fervor, 
the  lines  on  Spring  fell  in  musical  tones 
174 


The  "  Daily  Morning  Chronicle  " 

from  Richards's  lips.  Still  Lucyet  stood 
breathless,  her  whole  being  thrilled  with 
an  impulse  of  exultant,  inexpressible  de- 
light, listening  as  she  had  never  listened 
before.  It  was  as  if  she  stood  in  the 
midst  of  a  shining  mist. 

"  She  's  got  it  in  her,  has  n't  she  ?  " 
Richards  added,  after  a  pause. 

"Yes,"  said  his  companion,  slowly. 
"  She  's  got  it  in  her  fast  enough  ;  "  and 
he  returned  to  his  page  of  manuscript. 
"  Much  good  may  it  do  her !  "  he  added, 
with  weary  cynicism. 

Richards  laughed,  and  pulled  a  pack  of 
cards  out  of  his  pocket.  "  I  '11  play  soli- 
taire," he  said. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  murmured  the 
other,  devoutly. 

Ada  arrived  breathless.  "  Here  't  is," 
said  she.  "Did  you  think  I  was  never 
comin'  ?  You  've  got  time  enough ;  they 
ain't  very  prompt.  There  ain't  anythin' 
the  matter,  is  there  ?  "  she  asked. 

Lucyet  took  the  letter  mechanically. 
175 


The  "Daily  Morning  Chronicle" 

"  No,"   she    said,   "  there   is  n't    anything 
the  matter." 

As  she  went  swiftly  toward  the  little 
post-office  the  rhythm  of  those  lines  was 
in  her  ears ;  the  assured,  incisive  tones  of 
that  man's  voice  pulsed  through  her  very 
soul.  She  was  conscious  of  no  hope  for 
the  future ;  she  had  no  regret  for  the  past ; 
the  present  was  a  glory.  In  that  moment 
Lucyet  had  taken  a  long,  dizzying  draught 
from  the  cup  of  success. 


176 


Hearts  Unfortified 

THE  observation  train  wound  its  way 
in  clumsy  writhings  along  the  bank 
of  the  river,  upon  which  the  afternoon  light 
fell  in  modified  brilliancy  as  the  west 
kindled  towards  the  sunset.  But  if  the 
sheen  and  sparkle  of  the  earlier  day  had 
passed  into  something  more  subdued  and 
less  exhilarating,  the  difference  was  made 
up  in  the  shifting  action  and  color  that 
moved  and  glowed  and  flashed  on,  above 
and  beside  the  soft  clearness  of  the  stream. 
The  sunlight  caught  the  turn  of  the  wet 
oars  and  outlined  the  brown  muscular 
backs  of  the  young  athletes  who  were 
pulling  the  narrow  shells.  The  Yale  blue 
spread  itself  in  blocks  and  patches  along 
the  train,  and  the  Harvard  crimson  burned 
in  vivid  stretches  by  its  side,  and  all  the  blue 
12  177 


Hearts  Unfortified 

and  crimson  seemed  instinct  with  animation 
as  they  floated,  quivered,  and  waved  in  the 
thrilled  interest  of  hundreds  of  men  and 
women  who  followed  with  eager  eyes  the 
knife-blades  of  boats  cleaving  the  water  in 
a  quick,  silent  ripple  of  foam.  The  crowd 
of  launches,  tugs,  yachts,  and  steamers 
pushed  up  the  river,  keeping  their  distance 
with  difficulty,  and  from  them  as  well  as 
from  the  banks  sounded  the  fluctuating- 
yet  unbroken  cheers  of  encouragement 
and  exhortation,  rising  and  falling  in 
rhythmic  measure,  guided  by  public-spirited 
enthusiasts,  or  breaking  out  in  purely  in- 
dividual tribute  to  the  grand  chorus  of  par- 
tisanship. It  had  been  a  close  start,  and 
the  furor  of  excitement  had  spent  itself, 
somewhat,  during  the  first  seconds,  and 
now  made  itself  felt  more  like  the  quick 
heart-beats  of  restrained  emotion  as  the 
issue  seemed  to  grow  less  doubtful,  though 
reaching  now  and  then  climaxes  of  renewed 
expression. 

"  Alas  for   advancing    age  !  "    sighed  a 
178  . 


Hearts  Unfortified 

woman  into  the  ear  of  her  neighbor,  as 
their  eyes  followed  the  crews,  but  without 
that  fevered  intensity  which  marked  some 
other  glances. 

"  By  all  means,"  he  answered.  "  But 
why,  particularly,  just  now  ?  I  was  begin- 
ning to  fancy  myself  young  under  the 
stress  of  present  circumstances." 

"  Because  even  if  one  continues  to  keep 
one's  emotions  creditably  —  effervescent  — 
one  loses  early  the  single-minded  glow  of 
contest." 

"  A  single-minded  glow  is  a  thing  that 
should  be  retained,  even  at  considerable 
cost." 

"  And  what  is  worse  yet,  one  grows 
critical  about  language,"  she  continued 
calmly,  "  and  gives  free  rein  to  a  naturally 
unpleasant  disposition  under  cover  of  a 
refined  and  sensitive  taste." 

Ellis  Arnold  smiled  tolerantly. 

"  They  are  pretty  sure  to  keep  their  lead 
now,"  he  said.  "The  other  boat  is  more 
than  a  length  behind,  and  losing.  They 
179 


Hearts  Unfortified 

are  not  pulling  badly,  either,"  he  added. 
41  You  were  saying  ?  "  —  and  he  turned 
towards  her  for  the  first  time  since  the 
start. 

She  was  a  handsome  blonde-haired 
woman,  perfectly  dressed,  with  the  seal  of 
distinction  set  upon  features,  figure,  and 
expression. 

"  That  was  what  I  was  saying,"  she 
replied,  "  that  the  ones  that  are  behind  are 
not  pulling  badly." 

"  More  sphinx-like  than  ever,"  he  mur- 
mured. "  I  perceive  that  you  speak  in 
parables." 

Miss  Normaine  laughed  a  little.  The 
conversation  was  decidedly  intermittent. 
They  dropped  it  entirely  at  times,  and  then 
took  it  up  as  if  there  had  been  no  pause. 
It  was  after  a  brief  silence  that  she  went 

• 

on  :  "  But  you  and  I  can  see  both  boats  — 
the  success,  and  the  disappointment  too. 
And  we  can't,  for  the  life  of  us,  help  feel- 
ing that  it 's  hard  on  those  who  have  put 
forth  all  their  strength  for  defeat." 
180 


Hearts  Unfortified 

"  But  it  is  n't  so  bad  as  if  it  were  our 
boat  that  was  behind,"  he  said  sensibly. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  of  course  not.  But  I  main- 
tain that  it  injures  the  fine  fleur  of  enjoy- 
ment to  remember  that  there  are  two 
participants  in  a  contest." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  useless  to  expect  you  to 
be  logical  —  " 

"  Quite.  I  know  enough  to  be  en- 
tirely sure  I  'd  rather  be  picturesque." 

"  But  let  me  assure  you,  that  in  desir- 
ing that  there  should  be  but  one  partici- 
pant in  a  contest,  you  are  striking  at  the 
very  root  of  all  successful  athletic  exhi- 
bitions." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  a  little. 

"  Oh,  well,  if  you  like  to  air  your  pow- 
ers of  irony  at  the  expense  of  such  pain- 
ful literalness !  " 

"The  exuberance  of  my  style  has  been 
pruned  down  to  literalness  by  the  relent- 
less shears  of  a  cold  world.  With  you, 
of  course," — but  he  was  interrupted  by 
the  shouts  of  the  crowd,  as  the  win- 
181 


Hearts  Unfortified 

ning  boat  neared  the  goal.  The  former 
enthusiasm  had  been  the  soft  breathings 
of  approval  compared  to  this  outbreak  of 
the  victorious.  Flags,  hats,  handkerchiefs 
rose  in  the  air,  and  the  university  cheer 
echoed,  re-echoed,  and  began  again. 

Arnold  cheered  also,  with  an  energy 
not  to  be  deduced  from  his  hitherto  calm 
exterior,  standing  up  on  the  seat  and 
shouting  with  undivided  attention;  and 
Miss  Normaine  waved  her  silk  handker- 
chief and  laughed  in  response  to  the 
bursts  of  youthful  joy  from  the  seat  in 
front  of  her. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Arnold,  sitting  down 
again,  "  sport  is  sport  for  both  sides, 
whoever  wins  —  or  else  it  is  n't  sport  at 
all." 

"  Ah,  how  many  crimes  have  been  com- 
mitted in  thy  name ! "  murmured  Miss 
Normaine. 

"  Katharine,  I  think  you  have  turned 
sentimentalist." 

"  No,  it 's  age,  I  tell  you.  I  'm  think- 
182 


Hearts  Unfortified 

ing  more  now  of  the  accessories  than  I 
am  of  the  race.  That 's  a  sure  sign  of 
age,  to  have  time  to  notice  the  acces- 
sories." 

Arnold  nodded. 

"  There 's  compensation  in  it,  though. 
If  we  lose  a  little  of  the  drama  of  con- 
flict on  these  occasions,  we  gain  something 
in  recognizing  the  style  of  presentation." 

"Yes,"  and  she  glanced  down  at  her 
niece,  whose  pretty  eyes  were  making 
short  work  of  the  sunburned,  broad- 
shouldered,  smooth-faced,  handsome  boy, 
who  was  entirely  willing  to  close  the  fes- 
tivities of  Commencement  week  subjected 
to  the  ravages  of  a  grand,  even  if  a  hope- 
less, passion. 

From  her  she  looked  out  upon  the  now 
darkening  river.  There  had  been  some 
delay  before  the  train  could  begin  to  move 
back,  and  the  summer  twilight  had  fallen^ 
for  the  race  had  been  at  the  last  available 
moment.  Though  it  was  far  from  quiet, 
the  relief  from  the  tension  of  the  previ- 
183 


Hearts  Unfortified 

ous  moments  added  to  the  placidity  of  the 
scene.  The  opposite  banks  were  dim  and 
shadowy,  and  the  water  was  growing 
vague;  there  were  lights  on  some  of  the 
craft ;  a  star  came  out,  and  then  another ; 
there  were  no  hard  suggestions,  no  sordid 
reminders.  It  was  a  beautiful  world,  filled 
with  happy  people,  united  in  a  common 
healthy  interest ;  the  outlines  of  separation 
were  softened  into  ambiguity  and  the  dif- 
ferences veiled  by  good  breeding. 

"  It  is  only  a  mimic  struggle,  after  air," 
she  said  at  last.  "  The  stage  is  well  set, 
and  now  that  the  curtain  is  down,  there  is 
no  special  bitterness  at  the  way  the  play 
ended." 

"  There  you  exaggerate,  as  usual,"  he 
replied,  "  and  of  course  in  another  direc- 
tion from  that  in  which  you  exaggerated 
last  time." 

"The  pursuit  of  literature  has  made 
you  not  only  precise  but  didactic,"  she 
observed. 

"There  is  a  good  deal,  if  not  of  bit- 
184 


Hearts  Unfortified 

terness,  of  very  real  disappointment,  and 
some  depression." 

"  Which  will  be  all  gone  long  before 
the  curtain  goes  up  for  the  next  perform- 
ance." 

"  Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure ;  but  nevertheless 
you  underrate  the  disappointments  of 
youth,  —  because  they  are  not  tragic  you 
think  they  are  not  bitter,  —  you  have 
always  underrated  them." 

She  met  his  eyes  calmly,  though  he  had 
spoken  with  a  certain  emphasis. 

"  We  are  talking  in  a  circle,"  she  re- 
plied. "  That  was  what  I  said  in  the  first 
place  —  that  as  we  grow  older  we  have 
more  sympathy  with  defeat." 

"  You  are  incorrigible,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing ;  "  you  will  accept  neither  consolation 
nor  reproof." 

"  Life  brings  enough  of  both,"  she  an- 
swered ;  "  it  does  not  need  to  be  supple- 
mented by  one's  friends." 

The  train  was  moving  very  slowly ; 
people  were  laughing  and  talking  gayly  all 
185 


Hearts  Unfortified 

about  them ;  more  lights  had  come  out  on 
the  water,  and  a  gentle  breeze  had  sud- 
denly sprung  up. 

"Just  what  do  you  mean  by  that,  I 
wonder  ?  "  he  said  slowly. 

"Not  much,"  she  answered  lightly. 
"  But  I  do  mean,"  she  added,  as  he  looked 
away  from  her,  "  that,  whether  it  be  the 
consequence  of  the  altruism  of  the  day, 
or  of  advancing  age,  as  I  said  at  first,  it 
has  grown  to  be  provokingly  difficult  to 
ignore  those  who  lose  more  serious  things 
than  a  college  championship.  Verest- 
chagin  and  such  people  have  spoiled  his- 
tory for  us.  Who  cares  who  won  a  great 
battle  now  ?  —  it  is  such  a  small  thing  to 
our  consciousness  compared  to  the  number 
of  people  who  were  killed  —  and  on  one 
side  as  well  as  the  other." 

"  Except,  of  course,  where  there  is  a 
great  principle,  not  great  possessions,  at 
stake  ?  " 

"Yes,"    she    assented,    but    somewhat 
doubtfully,  "  yes,  of  course." 
1 86 


Hearts  Unfortified 

u  But  it  shows  a  terrible  dearth  of  in- 
terest when  we  get  down  to  principles." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  again,  laughing. 
Meanwhile  Miss  Normaine's  niece  was 
pursuing  her  own  ends  with  that  direct- 
ness which,  though  lacking  the  evasive 
subtlety  of  maturer  years,  is  at  once  ef- 
fective and  commendable. 

"  It  was  nothing  but  a  box  of  choco- 
late peppermints,"  she  insisted.  "  I  'd 
never  be  so  reckless  as  to  wager  anything 
more  without  thinking  it  over.  I  have  an 
allowance,  and  I  'm  obliged  to  be  careful 
what  I  spend." 

He  looked  her  over  with  approval. 

"  You  spend  it  well,"  he  asserted. 

"  I  have  to,"  she  returned,  "  or  else 
boys  like  you  would  never  look  at  me 
twice." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that."  He  spoke 
as  one  who,  though  convinced,  is  not  a 
bigot. 

"  It 's  fortunate  that  I  do,"  she  replied 
decidedly.  "  I  'm  mortifyingly  dependent 
187 


Hearts  Unfortified 

on  my  clothes.  There  's  my  Aunt  Kath- 
arine now,  —  she  has  an  air  in  any- 
thing." 

"  I  like  you  better  than  your  aunt,"  he 
confessed. 

"Of  course  you  do.  I  've  taken  pains 
to  have  you.  But  it  was  just  as  much  as 
ever  that  you  looked  at  me  twice  last 
night." 

"  I  was  afraid  of  making  you  too  con- 
spicuous." 

"  A  lot  you  were !  "  she  retorted  rudely. 
"  Who  was  that  girl  you  danced  with  ?  " 

He  smiled  wearily. 

44  Tommy  Renwick's  cousin  from  the 
West." 

"  She  is  pretty." 

"Very  good  goods." 

"  Is  she  as  nice  as  Tommy  ?  " 

"No.  There  are  not  many  girls  as 
nearly  right  as  Tommy." 

"Except  me." 

"  Well,  perhaps,  except  you." 

"  But  then,  I  'm  not  many." 
188 


Hearts  Unfortified 

"  No,  separate  wrapper,  only  one  in  a 
box,"  he  admitted  handsomely. 

Miss  Normaine's  niece  had  dark  eyes, 
brown  hair  that  curled  in  small  inadvertent 
rings,  and  a  rich  warm  complexion  through 
which  the  crimson  glowed  in  her  round 
cheeks.  She  was  so  pretty  that  she  ought 
to  have  been  suppressed,  and  had  a  way 
of  speaking  that  made  her  charming  all 
over  again. 

"  It  was  not  chocolate  peppermints,  and 
you  know  quite  well  it  was  n't,"  he  said, 
with  the  finished  boldness  compatible  with 
hair  parted  exactly  in  the  middle  and  a 
wide  experience.  Miss  Normaine's  niece 
opened  her  eyes  wide. 

"  What  was  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing  but  your  heart." 

She  considered  the  matter  seriously. 

"  Was  it  really  ?  " 

"  It  was  really." 

"  And  I  've  lost,"  she  pondered  aloud. 

"  And  you  've  lost." 

She  raised  her  eyes  with  a  glance  in 
189 


Hearts  Unfortified 

which  he  could  read  perfect  faith,  glad 
acknowledgment,  and  entire  surrender. 

11  Do  you  want  me  to  keep  telling 
you  ? "  she  demanded  with  adorable  petu- 
lance. 

"  There  is  Henry  Donald  !  "  exclaimed 
Miss  Normaine.  "  I  did  n't  see  him  be- 
fore. He  has  grown  stout,  has  n't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  bald." 

"  Is  n't  he  young  to  be  bald  and  stout 
too  ?  Do  tell  me  that  he  is,"  urged  Miss 
Normaine  with  pathos.  "  He  seems  just 
out  of  college  to  me,  and  I  don't  like  to 
think  that  I  've  lost  all  sense  of  propor- 
tion." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  have  n't,"  said  Arnold, 
consolingly.  "  It 's  only  he  that  has  lost 
his.  He  doesn't  take  exercise  enough. 
He  's  coming  this  way  to  speak  to  you. 
You  had  better  think  of  something  more 
flattering  to  say." 

"  I  never  thought  Harry  Donald  would 
get  stout  and  bald,"  went  on  Miss  Nor- 
maine, to  herself.  "  There  was  a  period 
190 


Hearts  Unfortified 

when  I  let  my  fancy  play  about  him,  most 
of  the  time  too,  but  I  never  thought  of 
that." 

"  Who 's  that  man  squeezing  through 
the  crowd  to  speak  to  Aunt  Katharine  ?  " 
asked  Alice. 

"  That  ?  Oh,  that 's  one  of  the  old 
boys." 

"  I  can  see  that  for  myself." 

"  He 's  a  Judge  Donald  of  Wisconsin. 
He 's  pretty  well  on,  but  he 's  a  Jim-dandy 
after-dinner  speaker.  Made  a  smooth 
speech  at  his  class  reunion." 

"They  still  like  to  come  to  the  race 
and  things,  don't  they  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  they  're  right  into  it  all 
while  they  're  here  too." 

Unhappily  unconscious  of  the  kindly 
feeling  being  extended  to  him  from  the 
bench  in  front,  Judge  Donald  seated  him- 
self by  Katharine,  just  as  they  drew  slowly 
into  the  station. 

"  You  have  n't  been  on  for  some  years, 
have  you  ?  "  she  asked  him. 
191 


Hearts  Unfortified 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  I  've  been  busy." 

u  Oh,  we  know  you  've  been  busy," 
she  interpolated,  smiling. 

"You're  the  same  Katharine  Nor- 
maine,"  he  rejoined.  "  I  thought  you 
were,  by  the  looks,  and  now  I  'm  sure. 
You  don't  really  know  that  I  've  ever  had 
a  case,  but  you  make  me  feel  that  my 
name  echoes  through  two  worlds  at  the 
very  least." 

"And  you  are  still  Harry  Donald,  sus- 
picious of  the  gifts  that  are  tossed  into 
your  lap,"  and  they  both  laughed. 

"This  is  the  man  of  the  class,"  went 
on  Judge  Donald,  turning  to  Ellis,  who 
had  taken  a  seat  above  them.  "  Your 
books  have  gotten  out  to  Wisconsin,  and 
that 's  fame  enough  for  any  man." 

u  Have  they  really  ?  "  said  Arnold.  "  I 
supposed  they  only  wrote  notices  of  them 
in  the  papers." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  murmured  Miss  Normaine. 
"  Ellis  has  turned  out  clever,  —  one  never 
knows." 

192 


Hearts  Unfortified 

"  I  guess  they  're  good,  too,"  went  on 
Donald ;  "  I  tell  'em  I  used  to  think  you 
wrote  well  in  college." 

"I  thought  I  did,  too,"  answered  Ar- 
nold. "  I  don't  believe  we  're  either  of 
us  quite  so  sure  I  write  well  now." 

They  had  delayed  their  steps  to  keep 
out  of  the  crowd,  for  the  people  were 
leaving  the  train,  some  hurrying  to  catch 
other  trains,  some  stopping  to  greet  friends 
and  acquaintances ;  there  was  a  general 
rushing  to  and  fro,  the  clamor  of  well- 
bred  voices,  the  calling  out  of  names  in 
surprised  accost,  the  frou-frou  of  gowns 
and  the  fragrance  of  flowers,  in  the  bare 
and  untidy  station. 

At  last  the  party  of  which  Miss  Nor- 
maine  was  one  left  the  car,  and  with  the 
two  men  she  made  her  way  down  the  plat- 
form, through  the  midst  of  the  hubbub, 
which  waxed  more  insistent  every  moment. 

"  It  is  with  a  somewhat  fevered  anxiety 
that  I  am  keeping  my  eye  on  Alice,"  she 
said. 

13  193 


Hearts  Unfortified 

"  She  is  with  a  young  man,"  said  Judge 
Donald. 

"  That  statement  has  not  the  merit  of 
affording  information.  She  has  been  with 
a  young  man  ever  since  we  left  home." 

"  It  is  n't  the  same  one,  either,"  supple- 
mented Arnold. 

u  It  never  is  the  same  one,"  said  Miss 
Normaine,  somewhat  impatiently.  "  I 
am  under  no  obligation  to  look  after  or 
even  differentiate  the  young  men.  I  sim- 
ply have  to  see  that  the  child  does  n't  get 
lost  with  any  one  of  them." 

"  She  won't  get  lost  with  one,"  said 
Arnold,  reassuringly,  as  they  were  separ- 
ated by  a  cross-current  of  determined  hu- 
manity. "She  has  three  now,  and  they 
are  all  shaking  hands  at  a  terrible 
rate." 

Judge  Donald  departed  on  a  tour  of 
investigation,  and  returned  to  say  that 
there  was  no  chance  just  at  present  of 
their  getting  away.  It  was  a  scene  of 
confusion  which  only  patience  and  time 
194 


Hearts  Unfortified 

could  elucidate.  The  omniscience  of  offi- 
cials had  given  place  to  a  less  satisfactory 
if  more  human  ignorance ;  last  come  was 
first  served,  and  a  seat  in  a  train  seemed 
by  no  means  to  insure  transportation.  It 
was  as  well  to  wait  for  a  while  outside  as 
in;  so  with  many  others  they  strolled  up 
and  down,  until  their  car  should  be  more 
easily  accessible. 

"Alice  is  an  example  of  the  profound 
truths  we  have  been  enunciating,  Ellis," 
said  Miss  Normaine.  "  She  has  an  ardent 
admirer  on  the  defeated  crew.  At  one 
time  I  did  not  know  but  his  devotion 
might  shake  her  lifelong  allegiance  to  the 
other  university ;  but  now  that  victory  has 
fairly  perched,  you  observe  she  has  small 
thought  for  the  bearers  of  captured  ban- 
ners. We  were  saying,  Mr.  Arnold  and 
I,"  she  explained  to  Donald,  "  that  it  is 
at  our  time  of  life  that  people  begin  to 
remember  that  when  somebody  beats, 
there  is  somebody  else  beaten." 

Donald  grew  grave,  —  as  grave  as  a 
195 


Hearts  Unfortified 

man  can  be  with  the  feathers  of  an  un- 
conscious girl  tickling  one  ear  and  a 
fleeting  chorus  of  the  latest  "  catchy " 
song  penetrating  the  other. 

"Arnold  and  I  can  appreciate  it  better 
than  you,  I  guess,"  he  said,  "  because 
there  have  been  times  when  we  thought 
it  highly  probable  we  might  get  beaten 
ourselves." 

"  Highly,"  assented  Arnold. 

"But  you,  Miss  Normaine,  you've 
never  had  any  difficulty  in  getting  in  on 
the  first  floor,"  went  on  the  other. 
"  You  've  quaffed  the  foam  of  the  beaker 
and  eaten  the  peach  from  the  sunniest  side 
of  the  wall  right  along  —  I  'm  quite  sure 
of  it  just  to  look  at  you." 

"The  Scripture  moveth  us  in  sundry 
places,"  said  Katharine,  with  a  lightness 
that  did  not  entirely  veil  something  seri- 
ous, "  not  to  put  too  much  faith  in  appear- 
ances. Even  I  am  not  above  learning  a 
lesson  now  and  then." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously. 
196 


Hearts  Unfortified 

"  I  'd  like  to  know  by  what  right  you 
have  n't  changed  more,"  he  said. 

"  Did  you  expect  to  find  me  in  ruins, 
after — let  me  see,  how  many  years?" 
she  laughed.  "The  hand  of  Time  is 
heavy,  but  not  necessarily  obliterating. 
What  has  become  of  Alice  ? " 

"  She  can't  have  gone  far,"  said  Arnold. 
"  She  was  with  us  a  moment  ago." 

u  There  she  is  with  some  of  the  rest  of 
your  party  —  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her 
just  now,"  added  Donald.  "  She 's  quite 
safe." 

Alice  stood  talking  with  a  girl  of  her 
own  age  and  two  or  three  undergraduates, 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd.  One  of 
the  youths  wore  in  his  buttonhole  the  los- 
ing color,  but  he  bore  himself  with  a 
proud  dignity  that  forbade  casual  condo- 
lences. Alice's  eyes  were  bright,  and  her 
pretty  laugh  rippled  forth  with  readily 
communicated  mirth,  while  the  very  roses 
of  her  hat  nodded  with  the  spirit  of  un- 
thinking gayety. 

197 


Hearts  Unfortified 

"There's  the  car  that  belongs  to  our 
fellows,"  said,  half  to  himself,  the  person 
of  sympathies  alien  to  those  of  his  present 
companions.  "They  must  be  about  — 
yes,  they  're  getting  on,"  he  added,  as  a 
car  which  had  been  propelled  from  a 
neighboring  switch  stopped  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  station.  Alice's  head  turned 
with  a  swiftness  of  motion  that  set  the 
roses  vibrating  as  if  a  sudden  breeze  had 
ruffled  their  petals. 

"  The  crew  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  young  man. 

She  turned  more  definitely  towards  him, 
away  from  the  rest  of  the  group,  whose 
attention  was  called  in  another  direction. 

"  Will  you  do  something  for  me,  Mr. 
Francis  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course." 

Alice  had  not  anticipated  refusal,  and 
her  directions  were  prompt  and  lucid. 

"  Please  go  into  that  car  and  ask  Mr. 
Herbert  to  come  out  to  the  platform,  at 
the  other  end,  to  speak  to  me.  There 
198 


Hearts  Unfortified 

isn't  much  time  to  lose,  so  please  be 
quick." 

As  he  lifted  his  hat  and  moved  away, 
she  joined  in  the  conversation  of  the 
others,  which  seemed  to  be  largely  meta- 
phorical. 

"So  he  got  it  that  time,"  one  of  the 
young  men  was  explaining,  "  where  Katy 
wore  the  beads." 

"  Well,  it  served  him  quite  right,"  said 
Alice,  with  the  generosity  of  ignorance. 
Her  whole  attention  was  apparently  given 
to  the  matter  in  hand,  but  she  was  stand- 
ing so  that  she  could  see  the  somewhat 
vague  vestibule  of  the  brilliant  but  cur- 
tained car. 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  it  was  n't  on  the  tintype 
that  the  other  fellow  should  have  been 
there  at  all." 

41  No,  to  be  sure,  but  that  made  it  all 
the  better,"  said  Alice's  friend,  with  sym- 
pathetic vision. 

"  Why,  there  's  Eugene  Herbert !  "  ex- 
claimed Alice.  "  I  really  must  go  and 
199 


Hearts  Unfortified 

tell  him  that  he  pulled  beautifully,  if  he 
did  n't  win,  and  comforting  things  like 
that !  Don't  go  off  without  me." 

Before  comment  could  be  framed  upon 
their  lips,  she  had  left  her  companions  and 
was  slipping  quickly  down  the  platform. 

"  She  knows  him  very  well,"  said  the 
other  girl ;  "  she  '11  be  back  in  a  minute." 

"She  must  have  sharp  eyes,"  said  an- 
other of  the  group,  as  he  looked  after  her. 
But  too  many  people  were  about  for  fixed 
attention  to  be  bestowed  upon  a  single 
figure.  There  was  but  one  light  under 
the  roof  of  that  part  of  the  station  where 
a  young  man  was  standing,  looking  rather 
sulkily  up  and  down.  Alice  was  a  little 
breathless  with  her  rapid  walk  when  she 
reached  him. 

"  I  thought  Francis  was  giving  me  a 
song  and  dance,"  he  said,  as  he  grasped 
the  hand  she  held  out. 

"No,  I  sent  him,"  she  explained  hur- 
riedly. "And  I  wanted  to  say — "  She 
paused  an  instant  as  she  looked  up  at  him. 
200 


Hearts  Unfortified 

He  was  serious,  and  wore  a  look  of 
fatigue,  in  spite  of  the  superb  physical 
health  of  his  whole  appearance.  The 
light  fell  across  her  face  under  the  dark 
brim  of  her  hat,  and  touched  its  beauty 
into  something  vividly  apart  from  the 
shadows  and  sordidness  of  the  place,  yet 
paler  than  its  sunlit  brilliancy. 

"  I  wanted  to  say,"  she  went  on  bravely, 
"  that  I  've  changed  my  mind.  At  least, 
I  did  n't  really  have  any  mind  at  all.  And 
if  you  still  want  me  to  — "  she  paused 
again,  but  something  in  his  eyes  reassured 
her  —  "  I  will  —  I  'd  really  like  to,  you 
know,  and  please  be  quiet,  there  is  n't  but 
a  minute  to  say  it  in  —  and  I  'd  never 
have  told  you  —  at  least  not  for  years  and 
years  —  if  you  had  won  the  race.  Now 
let  go  of  my  hand  —  there  are  hundreds  of 
people  all  about  —  and  you  can  come  and 
see  me  to-morrow." 

It  was  all  over  in  a  moment.  She  had 
snatched  her  hand  away,  and  was  speeding 
back  with  a  clear-eyed  look  of  conscious 
201 


Hearts  Unfortified 

rectitude,  and  he  had  responded  to  the 
exhortations  of  divers  occupants  of  the 
car,  backed  by  a  disinterested  brakeman, 
and  stepped  aboard. 

"  Oh,  well,  there 's  another  race  next 
year,"  he  said  to  somebody  who  spoke  to 
him  as  he  sat  down  in  the  end  seat.  It 
was  early  for  such  optimism,  and  they 
thought  Herbert  had  a  disgustingly  cheer- 
ful temperament. 

Alice  returned  just  as  Miss  Normaine 
and  Arnold  came  up,  and  they  all  went 
back  together,  collecting  the  rest  of  the 
party  as  they  went  to  their  train.  It  was 
a  vivacious  progress  along  the  homeward 
route.  Paeans  of  victory  and  the  flash  of 
Roman  candles  filled  the  air.  At  one 
time,  when  some  particular  demonstration 
was  absorbing  the  attention  of  the  men, 
Miss  Normaine  found  her  niece  at  her  side. 

"  Aunt  Katharine,  you  know  I  've 
always  adored  you,"  she  said,  with  a  re- 
pose of  manner  that  disguised  a  trifle  of 
apprehension. 

202 


Hearts  Unfortified 

11  Yes,  I  know,  Alice,  but  I  really  can't 
promise  to  take  you  anywhere  to-morrow. 
I—" 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  —  I  only  want  to 
confide  in  you." 

"Oh,  dear,  what  have  you  been  doing 
now  ? " 

"  I  think,"  replied  Alice,  while  the  cho- 
rus of  sound  about  them  swelled  almost 
to  sublimity,  "  that  I  've  been  getting  en- 
gaged—  to  Eugene  Herbert,  you  know." 

"  Only  to  Eugene  Herbert,"  breathed 
Miss  Normaine.  "  I  'm  glad  it  occurred 
to  you  to  mention  it.  But  why  did  n't 
you  say  so  before  ? " 

"  It  did  n't  —  it  was  n't  —  before,"  said 
Alice,  faltering  an  instant  under  the  calmly 
judicial  eye  of  her  aunt.  "  You  see,"  she 
went  on  quickly,  "  it  was  because  they 
lost  the  race.  It  would  n't  have  been  at 
all  —  not  anyway  for  a  long  time,"  —  and 
again  her  mental  glance  swept  the  vista  of 
the  years  she  had  mentioned  to  Herbert 
himself,  — "  if  it  had  n't  been  for  that ; 
203 


Hearts  Unfortified 

but  I  could  n't  let  him  go  back  without 
either  the  race  or  —  or  me,"  she  con- 
cluded ingenuously. 

Arnold  had  been  talking  with  a  man  of 
his  own  age,  and  hearing  things  that  were 
very  pleasant  to  hear  about  his  latest  work, 
and  yet,  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
and  looked  across  at  Katharine  Normaine, 
whose  own  expression  was  a  little  pensive, 
he  sighed.  It  was  a  great  deal  —  he  told 
himself  it  was  nearly  everything  —  to 
have  what  he  had  now  in  the  line  of  ef- 
fort which  he  loved  and  had  chosen.  It 
was  not  so  good  as  the  work  itself,  of 
course,  but  the  recognition  was  grateful. 
And  as  his  eyes  dwelt  again  upon  the  dis- 
tinction of  Miss  Normaine's  profile,  with 
the  knot  of  blonde  hair  at  the  back  of  her 
well-held  head,  he  sighed  again,  as  he  rose 
and  went  over  to  her.  She  looked  up  at 
him,  and  her  eyes  were  not  quite  so  calm 
as  usual. 

"  I  am  sitting,"  she  said,  "  among  the 
ruins." 

204 


Hearts  Unfortified 

"  Indeed  ?  "  he  said.  "  Is  there  room 
upon  a  fallen  column  or  a  broken  plinth 
for  me  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  "  but  it  is 
not  for  a  successful  man  like  you,  whose 
name  is  upon  the  public  lips,  to  gaze  with 
me  upon  demolished  theories." 

"  I  have  taken  my  time  in  gazing  upon 
them  before  now,"  he  observed. 

u  Everybody  is  talking  about  your 
book,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  no,  only  a  very  few  people.  But 
about  your  theories  —  which  of  them  has 
proved  itself  unable  to  bear  the  weight  of 
experience  ? " 

"You  may  remember  I  dwelt  some- 
what at  length  upon  the  indifference  of 
happy  youth  to  the  stings  of  outrageous 
fortune  when  supported  by  some  one 
else  ?  " 

41 1  remember.  I  regard  it  as  the  lesson 
for  the  day." 

"  It 's  early  to  mention  it,  but  I  am 
obliged  to  give  you  the  evidence  of  my 
205 


Hearts  Unfortified 

error  —  honor  demands  it  —  and  Alice  will 
not  mind,  even  if  she  sees  fit  to  contradict 
it  to-morrow ; "  and  she  told  him  what 
had  just  been  told  her. 

He  smiled  as  she  concluded  her  state- 
ment, and  she,  meeting  his  glance  in  all 
seriousness,  broke  down  into  a  moment's 
laughter. 

" c  She  does  not  know  anything  but  that 
her  side  is  beating,' "  he  quoted  medita- 
tively. 

"  I  thought  my  generosity  in  confession 
might  at  least  forestall  sarcasm,"  she  said 
severely. 

"It  ought  to  do  so,"  he  admitted. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause. 

"  Has  youth  itself  changed  with  the 
times,  I  wonder  ?  "  he  speculated.  "  Cer- 
tainly you  did  not  sympathize  overmuch 
with  defeat  at  Alice's  age." 

She  did  not  answer,  and  she  was  look- 
ing away  from  him  through  the  glass, 
beyond  which  the  darkness  was  pierced 
now  and  then  by  a  shaft  of  illumination. 
206 


Hearts  Unfortified 

The  pensiveness  that  had  rested  on  her 
face,  when  he  had  looked  across  the 
car  at  her,  had  deepened  almost  into 
sadness. 

"And  now,"  he  went  on,  "you  have 
called  me  successful  —  which  shuts  me 
out  from  your  more  mature  sympathy." 

Still  she  did  not  answer.  He  bent  a 
little  nearer  to  her. 

"  Believe  me,  Katharine,"  he  said, 
u  my  success  is  not  so  very  intoxicating 
after  all.  I  need  sympathy  of  a  certain 
kind  as  much  as  I  did  twenty  years 
ago." 

She  glanced  at  him. 

"  Is  that  all  you  want  ? "  she  asked 
with  a  swift  smile. 

"  No,"  he  returned  boldly ;  and  she 
looked  away  again,  out  into  the  darkness 
through  which  they  were  rushing. 

"  I  had  hoped,"  he  went  on,  "  that  my 

so-called   success  might  be  something    to 

offer  you  after  all  this  time  —  something 

you  would  care  for  —  and  now  I  find  that 

207 


Hearts  Unfortified 

your  ideals  are  all  reversed.  I  have  not 
won  much,  but  I  have  won  a  little,  and 
you  tell  me  to-day  that  it  is  only  extreme 
youth  that  cares  for  the  winners." 

"  And  that  I  have  found  out  that  I  was 
mistaken."  Her  voice  was  low,  but  quite 
clear.  "  Have  I  not  told  you  that,  too  ?  " 

"  And  about  experience  of  life  making 
us  care  the  more  for  those  who  fail  in 
everything  ?  "  —  he  waited  a  moment. 
"  You  have  not  mentioned  that  that  was  a 
mistake  also.  I  wish  you  'd  stop  looking 
out  of  that  confounded  window,"  he  added 
irritably,  "  and  look  at  me.  Heaven 
knows  I  've  failed  in  some  things !  " 

She  laughed  a  little  at  his  tone,  but  she 
did  not  follow  his  suggestion. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said,  "  you  have  suc- 
ceeded." 

"  And  that  means  —  what  ?  " 

"  I  told  you   I   was  sitting  among  the 
ruins   of  my  theories,"   she  said,  while  a 
faint    color,   which    he    saw  with    sudden 
pleasure,  rose  in  her  cheek. 
208 


Hearts  Unfortified 

"  That  adverse  theory  —  has  that  gone 
too  ? " 

"  I  have  had  enough  of  theories,"  she 
declared  softly.  "  What  I  really  care  for 
is  success." 


14  209 


Her  Neighbors'  Landmark 

""THE  sun  had  not  quite  disappeared  be- 
hind the  horizon,  though  the  days 
no  longer  extended  themselves  into  the 
long,  murmurous  twilight  of  summer;  in- 
stead, the  evening  fell  with  a  certain  defi- 
niteness,  precursor  of  the  still  later  year. 

On  the  step  of  the  door  that  led  di- 
rectly into  the  living-room  of  his  rambling 
house  sat  Reuben  Granger,  an  old  man, 
bent  with  laborious  seasons,  and  not  un- 
touched by  rheumatism.  The  wrinkles 
on  his  face  were  many  and  curiously  in- 
tertwined ;  his  weather-beaten  straw  hat 
seemed  to  supply  any  festal  deficiency  in- 
dicated by  the  shirt-sleeves ;  and  his  dim 
eyes  blinked  with  shrewdness  upon  the 
dusty  road,  along  which,  at  intervals,  a 
belated  wagon  passed,  clattering.  His 
days  of  usefulness  were  not  over,  but  he 
210 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

had  reached  the  age  when  one  is  willing 
to  spend  more  time  looking  on.  He  had 
always  been  tired  at  this  hour  of  the  day, 
but  it  was  only  of  late  that  fatigue  had 
had  a  certain  numbing  effect,  which  dis- 
inclined him  to  think  of  the  tasks  of 
tomorrow.  He  came  to  this  period  of 
repose  rather  earlier  nowadays,  and  after 
less  sturdy  labor  —  somehow,  a  great  deal 
of  the  sturdy  labor  got  itself  done  without 
him ;  and  there  was  an  acquiescence  in 
even  this  dispensation  perceptible  in  the 
fall  of  his  knotted  hands  and  the  tranquil 
gaze  of  his  faded  eyes. 

About  a  dozen  yards  beyond  him,  on 
the  doorstep  leading  directly  into  the  liv- 
ing-room of  a  house  which  joined  the 
other,  midway  between  two  windows  (the 
union  marked  by  a  third  doorway  unused 
and  boarded  up,  around  whose  stone  was 
the  growth  of  decades),  sat  Stephen  Gran- 
ger. His  weather-beaten  straw  hat  shaded 
eyes  dim  also,  but  still  keen ;  and  a  net- 
work of  curious  wrinkles  wandered  over 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

his  tanned  and  sun-dried  skin.  Upon  his 
features,  too,  dwelt  that  look  of  patient 
tolerance  that  is  not  indifference,  that 
only  the  "wise  years"  can  bring j  and 
on  his  face  as  well  as  his  brother's  certain 
lines  about  the  puckered  mouth  went  far 
to  contradict  it.  If  one  saw  only  one  of 
the  old  men,  there  was  nothing  grim  in 
the  spectacle  —  that  of  a  weary  farmer 
looking  out  upon  the  highroad  from  the 
shelter  of  his  own  doorway;  but  the  sight 
of  them  both  together  took  on  suddenly  a 
forbidding  air,  a  suggestion  of  sullenness, 
of  dogged  resolution ;  they  were  so  pre- 
cisely alike,  and  they  sat  so  near  one  an- 
other on  thresholds  of  the  same  long,  low 
building,  and  they  seemed  so  unconscious 
the  one  of  the  other.  It  was  impossible 
not  to  believe  the  unconsciousness  wilful 
and  deliberate.  A  heavily  freighted  and 
loose-jointed  wagon  rattled  noisily  but 
slowly  along  the  road. 

"  Howaryer  ? "    called    out    one   of  its 
occupants. 

212 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

"  'Are  yer  ? "  returned  Stephen  Granger. 

Reuben  had  opened  his  mouth  to  speak, 

but  closed  it   in    silence,  while  he  gazed 

o 

straight  before  him,  unseeing,  apparently, 
and  unheeding.  The  leisurely  driver 
checked  his  horse,  which  responded  in- 
stantly to  the  welcome  indication.  Be- 
hind him  in  the  wagon  two  calves  looked 
somewhat  perplexedly  forth,  their  mild 
eyes,  with  but  slightly  accentuated  curi- 
osity, surveying  the  Grangers  and  the 
landscape  from  the  durance  of  the  cart. 

"  Been  tradin'  ?  "  asked  Stephen. 

"Wai,  yes,  I  have,"  answered  the 
other,  with  that  lingering  intonation  that 
seems  to  modify  even  the  most  uncondi- 
tional assent. 

"  Got  a  good  bargain  ?  " 

"  Wai,  so-so." 

"Many  folks  down  to  the  store  this 
evenin'  ? " 

"  Wai,  considerable." 

"  Ain't  any  news  ?  " 

u  Not  any  as  I  know  on." 
213 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

Stephen  nodded  his  acceptance  of  this 
state  of  things.  The  other  nodded,  too. 
There  was  a  pause. 

"  G'long,"  said  the  trader,  as  if  he 
would  have  said  it  before  if  he  had  thought 
of  it.  But  the  horse  had  taken  but  a  few 
steps  when  another  voice  greeted  him. 

"  Howaryer,  Monroe  ?  "  said  Reuben 
Granger. 

"  Whoa,"  said  Monroe.    "  Howaryer  ? " 

"  Been  down  to  the  Centre  ?  "  asked 
Reuben. 

"  Yare." 

"  Got  some  calves  in  there,  I  see." 

"  Wai,  yes ;  been  doin'  some  tradin'.  " 

Reuben  nodded.  "  Ain't  any  news,  I 
take  it  ?  " 

"  None  in  partickler."  Another  ex- 
change of  nods  followed. 

"  G'long,"  said  Monroe,  after  a  short 
silence,  during  which  the  calves  looked 
more  bored  than  usual.  But  the  shaky 
wheels  had  made  but  a  few  revolutions  be- 
fore the  owner  of  the  wagon  reined  in  again. 
214 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

"  Say,"  ha  called  back,  twisting  himself 
around  and  resting  his  hand  on  the  bar 
that  confined  the  calves.  "  They  've  took 
down  the  shed  back  of  the  meetin'-house. 
Said  'twas  fallin'  to  pieces.  Might  'a' 
come  down  on  the  heads  of  the  hosses. 
Goin'  to  put  up  a  new  one."  Then,  as 
his  steed  recommenced  its  modest  substi- 
tute for  a  trot,  unseen  of  the  Grangers  he 
permitted  himself  an  undemonstrative 
chuckle.  "  They  can  sorter  divide  that 
piece  of  news  between  'em,"  he  said  to 
his  companion,  who  had  been  the  silent 
auditor  of  the  conversation.  A  moment 
of  indecision  on  the  part  of  the  Grangers 
had  given  him  time  to  make  this  obser- 
vation, but  it  was  not  concluded  when 
Reuben's  cracked  voice  sang  out  cheer- 
fully, "  Ye  don't  say  !  "  A  slight  con- 
traction passed  over  Stephen's  face. 
Much  as  he  would  have  liked  to  mark  the 
bit  of  information  for  his  own,  now  that 
it  had  been  appropriated  by  another,  he 
gave  no  further  sign.  The  noise  of  the 
215 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

wagon  died  along  the  road,  and  still  Reu- 
ben and  Stephen  Granger  sat  gazing 
straight  before  them  at  the  hill  which 
faced  them  from  the  other  side  of  the 
way,  at  the  foot  of  which  the  darkness 
was  falling  fast.  By  and  by  a  lamp  was 
lighted  in  one  half  of  the  house,  and  a 
moment  later  there  was  a  flash  through 
the  window  of  the  other,  and  slowly  and 
stiffly  the  two  old  men  rose  and  went 
inside,  each  closing  his  door  behind 
him. 

"  Them  's  the  Granger  twins,"  had  said 
the  owner  of  the  calves  in  answer  to  his 
companion's  question  as  soon  as  they  were 
out  of  hearing.  "  Yes,  they  be  sort  of 
odd.  Don't  have  nothin'  to  say  to  one 
another,  and  they  've  lived  next  door  to 
each  other  ever  since  they  have  n't  lived 
with  each  other.  It 's  goin'  on  thirty 
years  since  they  've  spoke.  Yes,  they  do 
look  alike  —  I  don't  see  no  partickler  dif- 
ference myself,  and  it  would  make  it 
kinder  awk'ard  if  they  expected  folks  to 
216 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

know  which  one  he 's  talkin'  to.  But 
they  don't.  They  're  kinder  sensible  about 
that.  They  're  real  sensible  'bout  some 
things,"  he  added  tolerantly.  "  Oh,  they 
was  powerful  fond  of  each  other  at  first 

—  twins,    y'    know.      They    was    always 
together,   and   when  each  of  'em   set    up 
housekeeping  nothin'  would  do  for  it  but 
they  should  jine  their  houses  and  live  side 
by  side  —  they  knew  enough  not   to  live 
together,  seein'  as  how,  though  they  was 
twins,  their  wives  wasn't.     So  they  took 
and   added  on  to  the  old  homestead,  and 
each  of  'em  took  an  end.     Wai,  I  dunno 
how  it  began  —  no,  it  wasn't  their  wives 

—  it  don't  seem  hardly  human  natur',  but 
it    was  n't    their    wives."     The    speaker 
sighed   a  little.     He   was   commonly  sup- 
posed to  have  gained  more  experience  than 
felicity  through  matrimony.     "  I  've  heard 
it  said  that  it  was  hoss-reddish  that  begun 
it.     You   see,  they  used  to  eat   together, 
and  Stephen  he  used  to  like  a  little  hoss- 
reddish    along    with    his    victuals    in   the 

217 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

spring,  and  Reuben,  he  said  't  was  a  pizen 
weed.  But  there !  you  can  never  tell ; 
they  're  both  of  'em  just  as  sot  as  —  as 
erysipelas ;  and  when  that 's  so,  somethin' 
or  other  is  sure  to  come.  I  know  for  a 
fact  that  Reuben  always  wanted  a  taste 
of  molasses  in  his  beans,  and  Stephen 
could  n't  abide  anythin'  but  vinegar.  So, 
bymeby,  they  took  to  havin'  their  meals 
separate.  You  know  it  ain't  in  human 
natur '  to  see  other  folks  puttin'  things 
in  their  mouths  that  don't  taste  good  to 
yours,  and  keep  still  about  it." 

His  companion  admitted  the  truth  of 
this  statement. 

"  Sometimes  I  think,"  went  on  Monroe, 
musingly,  "  that  if  they  'd  begun  by  eatin' 
separate  they  might  have  got  along,  'cause 
it 's  only  His  saints  that  the  Lord  has 
made  pleasant-tempered  enough  to  stand 
bein'  pestered  with  three  meals  a  day, 
unless  they  're  busy  enough  not  to  have 
time  to  think  about  anythin'  but  swallerin'. 
Hayin'-time  most  men  is  kinder  pleasant 
218 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

'bout  their  food  —  so  long's  it's  ready. 
Wai,  however  it  was,  after  they  eat  sep- 
arate there  was  other  things.  There  was 
the  weather.  They  always  read  the 
weather  signs  different.  And  each  of  'em 
had  that  way  of  speakin'  'bout  the  weather 
as  if  it  was  a  little  contrivance  of  his 
own,  and  he  was  the  only  person  who 
could  give  a  hint  how  't  was  run,  or  had 
any  natural  means  of  findin'  out  if  't  was 
hot,  or  cold,  or  middlin',  'less  he  took  hold 
and  told  'em.  It 's  a  powerful  tryin'  sort 
of  way,  and  finally  it  come  so  that,  if 
Reuben  said  we  was  in  for  a  wet  spell, 
Stephen  'd  start  right  off  and  begin  to 
mow  his  medder  grass,  and  if  Stephen 
'lowed  there  was  a  sharp  thunder-shower 
comin'  up,  inside  of  ten  minutes,  Reuben  'd 
go  and  git  his  waterin'-pot  and  water 
every  blamed  thing  he  had  in  his  garden. 
I  dunno  when  it  was  they  stopped  speak- 
in',  but  that  was  about  all  there  was  to  it 
—  little  things  like  that.  They  did  n't 
either  of  'em  have  any  children ;  some- 
219 


Her  Neighbors'  Landmark 

times  I  Ve  thought  if  they  had,  the  kids 
might  sort  of  brought  'em  together  —  they 
could  n't  have  kep'  'em  apart  without  they 
moved  away,  and  of  course  they  would  n't 
either  of  'em  give  in  to  the  other  enough 
to  move  away  from  the  old  farm.  Then 
their  wives  died  'bout  a  year  from  each 
other.  They  kep'  kind  o'  friendly  to  the 
last,  but  they  could  n't  stir  their  husbands 
no  more  'n  if  they  was  safes  —  it  seems, 
sometimes,  as  if  husbands  and  wives  was 
sort  o'  too  near  one  another,  when  it 
comes  to  movin',  to  git  any  kind  of  a 
purchase.  When  Reuben's  wife  died, 
folks  said  they  'd  have  to  git  reconciled 
now ;  and  when  Stephen's  died,  there 
didn't  seem  anythin'  else  for  'em  to  do; 
but  folks  did  n't  know  'em.  Stephen  went 
up  country  where  his  wife  come  from  and 
brought  home  a  little  gal,  that  was  her 
niece,  to  keep  house  for  him;  and  then 
what  did  Reuben  do  but  go  down  to  Zoar, 
where  his  wife  come  from,  and  git  her 
half-sister  —  both  of  'em  young,  scart 
220 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

little  things,  and  no  kin  to  one  another 
—  and  they  can't  do  nothin'  even  if  they 
wanted  to.  Bad-tempered  ?  Wai,  no. 
I  would  n't  say  the  Granger  twins  was 
bad-tempered ;  "  and  the  biographer  dexter- 
ously removed  a  fly  from  his  horse's  pa- 
tient back.  "  They  're  sot,  of  course,  but 
they  ain't  what  they  used  to  be  —  I  guess 
it 's  been  a  sort  of  discipline  to  'em  — 
livin'  next  door  and  never  takin'  no  kind 
of  notice.  They  're  pleasant  folks  to 
have  dealin's  with,  and  I  've  had  both  of 
'em  ask  me  if  I  cal'lated  it  was  goin'  to 
rain,  when  I  've  been  goin'  by  —  different 
times,  o'  course  —  but  it  'most  knocked 
the  wind  out  of  me  when  they  done  it, 
'stead  of  givin'  me  p'inters.  Yes,  you 
never  can  speak  to  'em  both  at  once, 
'cause  the  other  one  never  hears  if  ye  do ; 
but  there !  it  ain't  much  trouble  to  say  a 
thing  over  twice  —  most  of  us  say  it 
more  'n  that  'fore  we  can  git  it  'tended  to  ; 
and,"  he  added,  as  he  leaned  forward  and 
dropped  the  whip  into  its  socket  prepara- 
221 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

tory  to  turning  into  his  own  yard,  "  most 
of  us  hears  it  more  'n  once." 

"  Monroe,"  called  a  voice  from  the 
porch,  "  did  you  bring  them  calves  ?  " 

"Yare,"  said  Monroe. 

"  I  told  you  if  you  stopped  to  bring 
'em,  you  would  n't  be  home  till  after 
dark." 

"  Wai  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  't  would  be  dark  and  you  'd 
be  late  to  supper." 

"  Wai  ?  "  and  Monroe  took  down  the 
end  of  the  wagon,  and  persuaded  out  the 
calves. 

The  person  who  was  Monroe's  com- 
panion and  the  recipient  of  his  confidences 
was  a  young  woman  who  was  an  in- 
mate of  his  house  for  the  present  month 
of  September. 

Confident  and  somewhat  audacious  in 
her  conduct  of  life,  Cynthia  Gardner  had 
felt  that  this  September  existence  lacked  a 
motive  for  energy  before  it  brought  her 
into  contact  with  the  Granger  twins. 

222 


Her  Neighbors'  Landmark 

"  They  are  so  interesting,"  she  said  to 
Monroe,  a  day  or  two  later. 

"Wai,  I  guess  they  be,"  answered 
Monroe,  amiably.  The  quality  of  being 
interesting  did  not  assume  to  his  vision 
the  proportions  it  presented  to  Cynthia 
Gardner's,  but  he  saw  no  reason  to  deny 
its  existence.  Cynthia  cast  a  backward 
glance  from  the  wagon  as  she  spoke,  and 
saw  Reuben  slowly  and  stiffly  gathering 
up  dry  stalks  in  his  garden,  while  Stephen 
propped  up  the  declining  side  of  a  water- 
butt  in  his  adjoining  domain,  one  man's 
back  carefully  turned  to  the  other. 

She  walked  back  from  the  Centre,  and 
stopped  to  talk  with  the  twins  in  a  casual 
manner.  But  no  careful  inadvertence 
drew  them,  at  this  or  any  later  time  when 
their  social  relations  had  become  firmly 
established,  into  a  triangular  conversation. 
They  greeted  her  with  cordiality,  responded 
to  her  advances,  talked  to  her  with  the 
tolerant  and  humorous  shrewdness  that 
lurked  in  their  dim  eyes,  but  it  was  always 
223 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

one  at  a  time.  If,  with  disarming  naivete, 
she  appealed  to  Stephen,  Reuben  turned 
into  a  graven  image;  and  if  she  chaffed 
with  Reuben,  Stephen  became  as  one  who 
having  eyes  seeth  not,  and  having  ears 
heareth  not.  But  she  persisted  with  a 
zeal  which,  if  not  according  to  knowl- 
edge, was  the  result  of  a  firm  belief  in 
the  possibility  of  a  final  adjustment  of 
differences.  She  did  not  know,  herself, 
what  led  her  into  such  earnestness,  —  a 
caprice,  or  the  lingering  pathos  of  two 
lonely,  barren  lives. 

Monroe  watched  her  proceedings  with 
tolerant  kindliness.  It  was  not  his  busi- 
ness to  discourage  her.  He  knew  what 
it  was  to  be  discouraged,  and  he  felt  that 
there  was  quite  enough  discouragement 
going  about  in  life  without  his  adding 
to  it. 

"  I  tell  you  they  would  like  to  be  rec- 
onciled, Mr.  Monroe,"  said  Cynthia. 
"  They  don't  know  they  would  like  it, 
but  they  would." 

224 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

"Wai,  mebbe  they  would.  They're 
gittin'  to  be  old  men.  And  when  you 
git  along  as  far  as  that,  you  don't,  per- 
haps, worry  so  much  about  bein'  recon- 
ciled, but  neither  does  it  seem  as  worth 
while  not  to.  There 's  a  good  deal  that 's 
sort  of  instructive  about  gittin'  old,"  he 
ruminated. 

"  It 's  very  lonely  for  them  both,  I 
think ; "  and  Cynthia's  voice  fell  into  the 
ready  accents  of  youthful  pity. 

"  Their  quarrel 's  been  kinder  comp'ny 
for  'em,"  suggested  Monroe. 

"  It 's  overstayed  its  time,"  asserted 
Cynthia. 

"  Mebbe,"  answered  Monroe. 

The  crisis  —  for  Cynthia  had  been  look- 
ing for  a  crisis  —  came,  after  all,  unex- 
pectedly. She  had  been  for  the  mail,  and 
as  she  drove  the  amenable  horse  over  the 
homeward  road  she  strained  her  eyes  to 
read  the  last  page  of  an  unusually  absorb- 
ing letter,  for  it  was  again  sundown,  and 
the  Granger  twins  again  sat  in  their  door- 
15  225 


Her  Neighbors'  Landmark 

ways.  There  was  a  decided  chill  in  the 
air,  this  late  afternoon.  The  old  men, 
though  they  were  sturdy  still,  had  put  on 
their  coats,  and  from  behind  them  the 
comfortable  glow  of  two  stove  doors 
promised  a  later  hour  of  warmth  and  com- 
fort. Their  aspect  was  more  melancholy 
than  usual,  whether  it  were  that  the  bleak- 
ness of  winter  seemed  pressing  close  upon 
the  bleakness  of  lonely  age,  or  that  there 
was  an  added  weariness  in  the  droop  of 
the  thin  shoulders  and  the  fixed  eyes  —  it 
was  certain  that  the  picture  had  gained  a 
shadow  of  depression. 

For  once,  Cynthia  was  not  thinking  of 
them  as  she  drew  near.  The  reins  were 
loose  in  her  hand,  and  as  she  bent  to  catch 
the  waning  light,  an  open  newspaper, 
which  she  had  laid  carelessly  on  the  seat 
beside  her,  was  lifted  by  a  transient  gust 
of  wind  and  tossed  almost  over  her  horse's 
head.  No  horse,  of  whatever  serenity, 
can  be  thus  treated  without  resentment. 
He  jerked  the  reins  from  her  heedless 
226 


Her  Neighbors'  Landmark 

hands,  made  a  sharp  turn  to  avoid  the 
white,  wavering,  inconsequent  thing  at  his 
feet,  a  wheel  caught  in  a  neighboring 
boulder,  and  Cynthia  was  spilled  out  just 
in  front  of  the  Granger  house  and  midway 
between  the  twins.  In  a  common  im- 
pulse of  fright  the  two  old  men  started  to 
their  feet.  For  an  instant  they  paused  to 
judge  of  the  situation,  but  it  was  no  time 
for  fine  distinctions.  The  accident  had, 
to  all  appearances,  happened  as  near  one 
as  the  other,  and  meanwhile  a  young  and 
pretty  woman  lay  unsuccored  upon  the 
ground.  It  became  a  point  of  honor  to 
yield  nothing  to  an  ignored  companion. 
As  speedily  as  their  years  allowed,  Stephen 
and  Reuben  marched  to  the  rescue.  The 
horse,  meanwhile,  had  dragged  the  over- 
turned wagon  but  a  few  yards,  and  had 
stopped  of  his  own  reasonable  accord. 
As  Cynthia  raised  herself  rather  confus- 
edly and  quite  convinced  that  she  was 
killed,  her  first  impression  was  that  the 
angels  were  older  than  she  had  fancied, 
227 


Her  Neighbors'  Landmark 

and  looked  very  much  like  the  Granger 
twins.  But  in  a  few  seconds  her  balance 
of  mind  was  restored,  she  realized  that 
while  there  was  life  there  was  hope,  and 
that  for  the  first  time  in  her  experience 
the  eyes  of  Reuben  and  Stephen  were 
fixed  solicitously  upon  a  common  object, 
that  each  of  them  had  stretched  out  to 
her  a  helping  hand,  and  that  two  voices 
with  precisely  the  same  anxious  intonation 
were  saying, — 

"  Be  ye  hurt  ?  " 

It  was  a  solemn  moment,  but  Cynthia 
Gardner  was  of  the  stuff  that  recognizes 
opportunity.  She  laid  a  hand  upon  each 
rugged  arm,  and  steadied  herself  between 
them ;  she  perceived  that  they  trembled 
under  her  touch,  and  she  felt  that  the  in- 
stant in  which  they  stood  side  by  side  was 
dramatic. 

u  I  declare,  't  was  too  bad,"  said  Reuben. 

"  'T  was  too  bad,"  said  Stephen. 

"  Is  the  horse  all  right  ?  "  asked  Cynthia, 
feebly. 

228 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

"Yes,  Johnny  Allen  got  him,"  said 
Stephen. 

"  Johnny  Allen  came  along,"  said  Reu- 
ben, as  if  Stephen  had  not  spoken,  "  and 
he 's  got  him." 

"  I  can  walk,"  she  said,  with  not  un- 
conscious pathos,  "  if  you  will  walk  with 
me,  but  I  must  go  in  and  rest  a  moment ;  " 
and  the  three  moved  slowly  straight  forward. 

A  few  steps  brought  them  to  the  point 
at  which  they  must  turn  aside  to  reach 
either  entrance.  Before  them  rose  the 
old  boarded-up,  dismal  doorway,  weather- 
beaten,  stained,  repellent  as  bitterness. 
There  was  another  fateful  pause.  Cyn- 
thia felt  the  quiver  that  ran  through  the 
frames  of  the  old  men  as  for  the  first  time 
in  long  years  they  stood  side  by  side  be- 
fore the  doorway  about  which  as  children 
they  had  played,  and  through  which  as 
boys  they  had  rushed  together.  In  Cyn- 
thia's drooping  head  plans  were  rapidly 
forming  themselves,  but  she  had  time  to 
be  thankful  that  she  did  not  know  which 
229 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

was  Reuben  and  which  was  Stephen  —  it 
saved  her  the  anxiety  of  decision ;  instinc- 
tively she  turned  to  the  right,  a  small 
brown  hand  clutching  impartially  either 
rough  and  shabby  sleeve. 

The  man  on  her  right  swerved  in  an 
impulse  of  desertion,  but  her  grasp  did 
not  relax. 

"  Is  the  judgment  of  Solomon  to  be 
pronounced ! "  she  said  to  herself,  half 
hysterically,  for  her  nerves  were  a  little 
shaken. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  I  sha'  n't  faint !  "  she  ex- 
claimed aloud. 

Beneath  Reuben's  rustic  exterior  beat 
the  American  heart  that  cannot  desert  an 
elegant  female  in  distress.  He  followed 
the  inclination  of  the  other  two  to  Ste- 
phen's door,  and  in  another  never-to-be- 
forgotten  moment  he  stepped  inside  his 
brother's  house. 

Stephen's  deceased  wife's  niece  was  so 
overcome  by  the  spectacle  that  she  re- 
tained barely  enough  presence  of  mind  to 
230 


Her  Neighbors'  Landmark 

drag  forward  a  wooden  chair  upon  which 
Cynthia  sank  in  a  condition  evidently  bor- 
dering upon  syncope.  It  was  a  critical 
moment ;  she  must  not  give  the  intruder 
an  opportunity  to  escape.  She  knew  the 
intruder  by  that  impulse  of  desertion,  and 
she  clung  the  tighter  to  his  arm  when  she 
murmured  pitifully,  "  If  you  could  get  me 
some  water,  Mr.  Granger." 

Stephen  hastened  towards  the  kitchen 
pump  —  the  sight  of  Reuben  in  his  side 
of  the  house,  after  thirty  years,  set  old 
chords  vibrating  with  a  suddenness  that 
threatened  to  snap  some  disused  string, 
and  his  perceptions  were  not  as  clear  as 
usual.  He  seized  the  dipper,  filled  it,  and 
looked  about  him. 

"  Where  's  the  tumbler,  Jenny  ?  "  he 
called  impatiently. 

"  It 's  right  there,"  answered  the  girl, 
with  the  explicitness  of  agitation. 

"  Whar  ?  "  he  demanded  with  asperity. 

"Settin'  on  the  side  —  right  back  of 
the  molasses  jug." 

231 


Her  Neighbors'  Landmark 

"  Molasses  jug  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Nice 
place  for  the  molasses  jug  !  " 

"  We  was  goin'  to  have  baked  beans 
for  supper,"  said  the  trembling  Jenny, 
feeling  that  it  was  best  to  be  tentative 
about  even  a  trifling  matter  within  the 
area  of  this  convulsion,  "  and  you  always 
want  it  handy." 

It  was  a  simple  statement,  but  it  laid  a 
finger  upon  the  past  and  upon  the  future. 
Cynthia,  through  her  half-closed  eyes,  saw 
one  old  man  with  disturbed  features,  stand- 
ing with  his  hand  upon  her  chair,  while 
another  old  man  shuffled  toward  her  with 
a  glass  of  water,  which  spilled  a  little  in 
his  shaking  hand  as  he  came  across  the 
humble  kitchen.  Most  inadequate  dra- 
matic elements,  yet  they  held  the  tragedy 
of  nearly  a  lifetime,  and  the  comedy, 
though  more  evident,  was  cast  by  it  in 
the  shade,  and  she  neither  laughed  nor 
cried. 

Within  a  few  moments  more   she  was 
on  her  homeward  way,  a  trifling  break  in 
232 


Her  Neighbors'  Landmark 

the  harness  tied  up  with  twine,  and  Johnny 
Allen  in  the  seat  beside  her  as  guard  of 
honor. 

The  next  evening  the  people,  driving 
home  from  the  Centre,  were  saved  from 
some  active  demonstration  only  by  the 
repression  of  the  New  England  tempera- 
ment. Some  of  them  even,  after  driving 
past,  invented  an  errand  to  drive  back 
again,  so  as  to  make  sure.  For  the 
Granger  twins  sat  side  by  side  in  front  of 
the  disused  doorway,  and  their  straw  hats 
were  turned  sociably  towards  one  another, 
now  and  then,  as  they  exchanged  a  sylla- 
ble or  two,  and  there  was  a  mild  lumin- 
ousness  of  pleasure  in  the  recesses  of 
their  pale-blue  eyes.  The  evening  dark- 
ened fast  into  night.  The  plaintive 
half-chirp,  half-whistle  of  a  tree-toad 
fell  in  monotonous  repetition  upon  the 
ear. 

"  Hear  them  little  fellers  !  "  said  Ste- 
phen, ruminantly.  "  I  reckon  they  think 
it 's  goin'  to  rain." 

233 


Her  Neighbors'   Landmark 

"Yare,"  said  Reuben.  "And,"  he 
went  on,  pushing  back  his  straw  hat  and 
looking  up  into  the  sky,  "I  wouldn't 
wonder  if  they  was  right." 

"  Mostly  are,"  said  Stephen. 


234 


Miss  Irumbuir  s  New  Story 


Mistress  Content  Cradock 

AN  HISTORICAL  TALE  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

LIFE    IN    THE    TIME    OF    GOVERNOR 

WINTHROP  AND  ROGER  WILLIAMS 

BY    ANNIE    ELIOT    TRUMBULL 

Author  of"  A   Cafe  Cod  Week;"1  "  Rod's  Salvation?*  "A 
Christinas  Accident,1''  etc. 

i  vol.     izmo.,  cloth.     Illustrated.     Price,  $1.00. 


A  charming  colonial  romance. — TheCongregationalist. 

It  is  in  a  word  a  fascinating,  strong,  well-told  story. 
— The  Church  T^eview. 

It  is  a  delightful  way  to  study  history — one  of  the  best 
of  ways — to  read  a  book  written  by  one  whose  historical 
information  is  accurate. — Boston  Advertiser. 

The  thread  of  romance  and  love  is  rendered  most  attract- 
ive by  the  author's  well-known  bright  and  attractive  style, 
her  delicately  fashioned  descriptions,  and  her  entertaining 
dialogue. — W.  Y.  Times. 

Winsome  and  captivating,  Content  pleases  us  of  to-day  as 
she  did  the  lover  who  patiently  waited  to  obtain  the  gift  of 
her  not  too  easily  engaged  heart,  and  *b»  'uiet  story  of  her 
fortunes  is  well  worth  following. — LtJnA,ture. 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid,  on 
receipt  of  price,  by  the  Publishers, 

A.  S.  BARNES  &  CO/ 

156  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


Rod's  Salvation. 

BY 

ANNIE  ELIOT  TRUMBULL. 


Illustrated  by  Charles  Copeland.     12010,  cloth, 
285  pages.    $1.00. 


The  volume  entitled  "  Rod's  Salvation,"  contains  four 
short  stories,  some  of  which  are  long  enough  to  be  fairly 
called  novelets.  ..."  Rod's  Salvation"  is  a  good  picture  of 
'longshore  life,  telling  of  the  devotion  of  a  sister  to  a 
scapegrace  brother  and  well  worthy  a  reading.  —  Spring- 
field Republican. 

Miss  Trumbull  is  blessed  by  a  most  delightful  and 
unpretentious  gift  of  story-telling.  Her  work  suggests  a 
twilight  musician ;  she  has  a  certain  dainty  humor  in  her 
touch.  —  The  Citizen. 

"  Rod's  Salvation  "  appears  to  us  the  most  interesting 
sketch  of  the  four  in  the  present  volume.  It  proves  a 
thorough  comprehension  of  the  noblest  characteristics  of 
the  inhabitants  of  the  typical  New  England  fishing  village. 
The  author  shows  us  diamonds  in  the  rough,  and  with  a 
most  happy  talent,  suddenly  reveals  to  us  the  gleaming 
beauties  beneath  their  rude  exterior.  "  Rod's  Salvation  "  is 
an  inspiring  story,  the  pathos  of  which  is  accentuated  by 
the  delicate  satire,  exquisite  humor,  and  touches  of  kindly 
human  nature  which  lead  one  up  to  the  unexpected  climax. 
—  The  Church  Review. 


Cape  Cod 


BY 

ANNIE  ELIOT  TRUMBULL. 

i2mo,  cloth,  170  pages.    $1.00. 


The  keenness,  quickness,  and  acuteness  of  the  New  Eng- 
land mind  were,  perhaps,  never  better  illustrated  than  in 
her  stories.  Her  conversations  are  at  times  almost  super, 
naturally  bright ;  such  talk  as  one  hears  from  witty,  bril- 
liant, and  cultivated  American  women  —  talk  notable  for 
insight,  subtle  discriminations,  unexpected  and  surprised 
terms  and  persuasive  humor. 

"A  Cape  Cod  Week"  contains  an  account  of  the  ad- 
ventures and  achievements  of  three  young  women  who 
sought  the  seclusion,  silence,  and  scenery  of  Cape  Cod, 
and  who  enlivened  that  remote  and  restful  country  by 
flashes  of  talk  often  brilliant,  almost  always  entertaining. 
Miss  Trumbull's  work  is  delightful  reading :  the  sameness 
of  the  commonplace  and  the  obvious  is  so  entirely  absent 
from  it.  —  The  Outlook. 

Annie  Eliot  Trumbull  delights  in  fine  descriptions  of 
nature  as  it  exists.  The  book  is  capital  reading  and  its 
merits  can  be  appreciated  the  whole  year  round.  —  New 
York  Times. 

A  delightful,  gossipy  little  sketch  of  a  week's  holiday  on 
Cape  Cod.  It  is  full  of  bright  things,  imaginative  to  a 
degree,  and  yet  based  on  facts  as  we  have  all  seen  them  on 
the  sands  of  the  Cape.  The  book  is  beautifully  printed  and 
bound.  —  Boston  Globe, 


The  "Annie  Eliot"  Stories 


FIVE    NEW    BOOKS 

BY  ANNIE  ELIOT  TRUMBULL 

MISTRESS  CONTENT  CRADDOCK.  Illustrated  by 
Chas.  Copeland.  I2mo,  cloth,  306  pages.  $1.00. 

A  CHRISTMAS  ACCIDENT  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 
I2mo,  cloth,  234  pages.  $1.00. 

A  CAPE  COD  WEEK,  izmo,  cloth,  170  pages. 
$1.00. 

ROD'S  SALVATION.  Illustrated  by  Charles  Cope- 
land.  I2mo,  cloth,  285  pages.  $1.00. 

AN  HOUR'S  PROMISE.  New  Edition.  I2mo, 
cloth.  $1.00. 


The  reader  will  enjoy  the  wit,  the  delicate  satire,  the 
happy  bits  of  nature  description. — S.  S,  Times. 

They  are  New  England  stories  and  exhibit  a  delicate 
comprehension  of  many  types  of  New  England  character. 
They  are  delightfully  readable,  and  the  books  ought  to  be 
favorites. — The  Conprevationalist. 

o       & 

Miss  TrumbulFs  claim  to  the  attention  of  her  readers  is 
undisputed.  Her  short  stories  possess  a  freshness,  a  poign- 
ancy and  underlying  quick-witted  penetration  into  human 
feelings,  motives  and  experiences  that  give  them  a  peculiar 
charm.  Her  choice  of  themes  is  such  as  appeals  to  a  wide 
circle  and  her  handling  of  the  persons  of  her  imagination  is 
exquisite., — Hartford  Post. 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or   sent  postpaid,  on 
receipt  of  price,  by  the  Publishers, 

A.  S.  BARNES  &  CO. 

156  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


UC  SOUTHERN  REfflONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000  051  475     2 


